Barry Lee Thompson

When he’s nostalgic, it’s pale blue, like seaside houses. Distant seagulls in morning harbours, old-fashioned cream cakes, and the damp wood of rickety beach-huts.

Relaxation is liquid green, like late-summer afternoons. He hears the lazy buzz of insects in the settled heat, and tastes the sweet anticipation of the evening to come. 

When he’s anxious, it’s the colour of commuters in the rush of a cold urgency. It’s the sound of the doors on a crowded train, and the smells and the tastes of the hard fabrics of business.