Picasso Mondays

I love Picasso Mondays. There is a quality of light on mornings like these. A hazy paleness, filled with the promise of a long fine day, which makes me think of Picasso. The azure blue of the sky, the deep pinks and reds of terraced houses, their many angles enhanced by ever changing shadows, the bright mauve of the wisteria set against the warm orange of the brickwork and the earthy terracotta of the scattered plant pots.

Those Mondays through a fine spring and early summer when there is still that faint chill in the air and a clean fresh breeze sends a shiver through the trees making the newly budding leaves whisper quietly, the jangle of windchimes punctuating their conversation with each gentle gust. The only other sounds are the occasional muted chatter from nearby back yards and the pinking of the blackbird as he hops along the fence in search of worms. 

It is on days such as these I wake up with an eagerness to be up and greet such a fine day. To fling the windows wide and let the crisp fresh air into every corner of the house to banish the stale humours of the night. 

And why Mondays in particular? Mondays are wash days and Picasso Mondays are the best. By lunchtime my washing lines are full; the fresh laundry dancing and swaying to the secret rhythm of the breeze, the bright colours flashing as they catch the sunlight. As the sun climbs high and my work is done  I take pleasure in sitting with a cup of proper tea, enjoying the quiet solitude. There is something strangely secretive about sitting between the rows of fresh scented laundry with only  the cat; stretched lazily in a patch of sunlight; and the dog; nose held aloft, sniffing the breeze; to keep me company. 

And, as the evening sun lengthens the shadows, once again accentuating the angles on nearby buildings and bathing them in a warm glow, the chill returns to the breeze and it is time to gather up the laundry revelling in the fresh air scent with its hint of ozone and sunlight. A perfect end to a Picasso Monday.