Red is the colour of my shame-faced skin

Someone has drawn an eiderdown of greyish lavender clouds across the sky, with just a vestige of the earlier day's bright blue trailing at the edge.

I look out the kitchen window at a freshly-painted chartreuse table in the centre of a large square of brick tiles. When the unimpeded sun was shining in the late morning, I spotted one of our neighbours digging out a square of soil and pulling bricks to the edge of it. I had assumed she was setting out a garden patch like the one she established in her front yard in bits and pieces over the past year or so.

With a shock, I realize that this lady, a spry but elderly woman who cares for her tiny grandchildren when not moving the earth, has not only paved the backyard, but has also painted the table. All in the space of the afternoon.

I, a younger woman, have been overwhelmed by what needs to be done. Clearly, I need to fight free and get with some hurdling.