I step out of the grey cement depot and start across the grey cement parking lot. What a grey, grim, gross, grungy, grizzly, grindy... grey evening.
No one likes grey. The kids draw with all the colours of the rainbow. But nobody colours with grey.
Our language is violently anti-grey, too. Purple is violet, lilac, maroon, burgundy, mauve, lavender; Green is olive, avocado, teal, forest, turquoise, emerald, chartreuse; heck, even dirty, old brown is coffee, tan, tawny, dun, and beige.
But grey is just grey.
Maybe it’s because grey is the colour of the pencils teachers made us write essays with. Or because the storm clouds that ruined picnics and camping trips were grey. Or is it because grey is the colour of heavy industry and dead-end jobs? The colour of loveless labour?
Grey is the highway that obliterates the country lane. Grey is the sweatsuite that replaces tailored clothes. Grey is the factory that puts the craftsman out of work. Grey is the smoke that stings my eyes and burns my lungs. Grey is the look on my co-workers’ faces as I arrive at the bus stop.
Pheeeeee-beeeee! Pheeeeee-beeeee!
The cry derails my coal-grey train of thought.
In the only tree nearby there’s a flicker of life.
Pheeeeee-beeeee! Pheeeeee-beeeee!
Two chickadees flap and flirt in the branches: the very picture of innocent vitality. They chuckle and chirrup and ruffle their feathers. In the dusky light, their pinions sparkle a vivacious grey.