The sky the colour of dirty dishwater and the air has the touch like the cold hand of death.
Days like these are as welcome as a bowl of cold porridge.
Washing hangs limply … too tired and dismal to even sway in the dank atmosphere.
Quickly plucking the pegs to release the prisoner clothing from its bondage a few fat cold drips attack me and my clothing – sky wee – falls here and there and I trudge with haste to the back door.
Me and mine safe from the heavenly assault.
Days like these are grossly unjust! Public holidays are meant to be warm sunny and fun!