When I was young, my father fell very ill. So ill, he turned yellow. Jaundiced, is the medical term. HE was yellow, his skin was sallow and the white of his eyes, the most telling evidence of this change, were a very unwell yellow. He lay recovering in bed , camouflaged in sheets as yellow as he was. Surreal overexposure and total reign of yellow.
I have been diligently focussing on yellow this week and in doing so, that memory of my yellow father surfaced. Like a yellow submarine.
Autumn is well and truly here. Yellow reigns in the garden. The Gleditsia tree thinks it's at the Met Gala Ball and is positively glowing in her dress of gold-leaved finery.
When Spring comes, the terrible Gorse will spring forth with it's blooms of acid yellow.
I have no yellow sheets in my linen cupboard. My fathers eyes are bright white.