Island Blog – Lady Macbeth

My morning thus far has not been without a spot of eventing. Actually, most of my mornings are somewhat tapselteerie and it’s the way I like them. However, this particular one overstepped the mark. Let me explain.

I am to meet a friend for lunch in the harbour town. We are a good fun duo even if she is half my age. Age matters not when women become women. Instead the connection is that invisible thread of tribal understanding, of hearts meeting for a hug. We laugh, share and lift each other’s spirits every time. Because of this plan, I am dressed in the usual clanjamfrie of frocks, noticing with a wince that it is raining hard, again. Well, dammit. This means a waterproof mac and hood and I and all the others on this soggy West Coast will be doing this wincing thing whilst we apologise to our pretty jackets, now home to many mother spiders and a load of dust. Sorry, we say, stroking the soft fabric, but if I was to wear you this day, together we would absorb half the sky; we would drip all over the cafe floor and our colours would run so it’s best if you stay home.

Over breakfast I peer out of the rain-striped windows just knowing there is a world out there, a sea-loch, birds and my mini, even though I can only see rain. An idea leaps into my head. I know! I will try out that scarlet red wash-in wash-out hair dye, just a few strands for fun. Donning my binoculars I manage to more or less understand the minute instructional text and I begin. Shake the tube. I shake vigorously. Squeeze the dye into the affixed sponge. I squeeze. Squeeze again. Once more and out it comes at approximately 108 mph narrowly missing my eye, covering my face, my frocks, the floor. I gasp and lift my face to the mirror. I can already see the chuckle in my, thankfully, clear eyes. I rise to my full height. I am Lady Macbeth without the dagger. I can’t smile nor laugh for fear of poisoning myself. Back into the moment, quick. Although this dye purports to be wash-in wash-out, that reassurance applies only to hair. What about my frocks?

At a speed I had left behind in my 20s, I strip and check the damage. Running a basin of hot water, I scrub and scrub. The floor can wait. The red turns pink, stains the basin, yes, but the dye seems to be lifting. I turn to walk downstairs, heading for the washing machine, forgetting the puddle of scarlet on the floor. Ooh, foot art! Those footprints heading that way, then remembering into a stop and turning back. A real painting. I might let it dry. I clean up, change and laugh my way into the next moment, quite thankful to leave the last ones in the past. Then I remember my hair, which did catch some of the explosion of red. Hmmmm. It’s drying now so I’m stuck with it. The whole thing laughs me into new frocks and with a story to tell. Although this could be seen as a disaster, I don’t do that, not with my mistakes, not with those of others. Most so called disasters are decidedly First World problems, anyway. If the hair dye does run in the rain, I will simply run after it.

And, for just a moment, I was Lady Macbeth.

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