Now, I’ll qualify this by stating I love all colour eyes. There’s not an eye colour I don’t like. Cliche alert, but perhaps there is some truth to the idea that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I have people in my life with all colours of eye.


My eyes are caramel brown, a little bit like tiger eye.

Aimée’s eyes are a dusky RAF blue.

My Dad’s eyes were battleship grey.

My Gran’s eyes were cornflower blue.

My Uncle’s eyes are denim blue.

My Mother had the strangest eyes in the family. One was sky blue, one was emerald green.

One day, I hadn’t long been up, and I wandered into my mother’s bedroom. Neither of us said anything for a while, but I realised she was staring at me. Eventually, I had to ask, so I did.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Has one of your eyes turned blue?” she asked.

“No!” I baulked, and ran to the mirror to check.

My face was exactly as I’d left it, so I went back to her bedside to show her.

“Oh, they’re brown,” she replied, deflated. “I don’t like brown eyes.”

Now, that might sound rude, hurtful even. It was funny, largely because normal people don’t start their day that way. I made her a cup of tea and we went back to talking about Eastenders.

My main character has hazel eyes. She’s made up, but she has beautiful eyes.