We are only a few weeks into winter. This year ours has been relentlessly, unusually and depressingly grey. The sun has barely emerged from grey-blanketed skies for weeks.
Mandurah's thousands of grey nomads have pulled down their roller shutters, packed up their mobile homes and trundled off to warmer climes. On a cloudy Sunday, with the shops all shut, Mandurah's city centre feels like a ghost town.
One grim day I looked in my wardrobe for something bright to wear and realised that three quarters of my wardrobe now matches my hair: many, many shades of grey. My new merino tops arrived in the post (black and grey); they are so lovely and warm that I haven't wanted to take them off since. Accessories and lipstick for colour I say.
We have been enjoying soups and casseroles and pies; I gathered up the free-range grey pumpkins from the back garden and transformed them into a cauldron of spicy and colourful soup.
It is weather for snuggling up by the fire weather and reading. Everyone I know seems to be sniggering and guffawing through Fifty shades of grey, but not me. I am too busy reading to plan our next trip away. We were eyeing up the coldest place in the state, Bridgetown, after falling for it on our way back from Albany. But instead, like wannabe grey nomads, we are planning our first roadtrip north of Perth.
I can't remember our previous two winters being this dull, dreary, bleak, miserable and cold.
I never thought I'd say this here, but I wish the sun would jollywell come out.
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