It was a bright afternoon in the lovely village of Plumwold,  Alfie Trelawney, found himself lounging in his favorite armchair, thinking about life's great mysteries, such as, the nature of colour and in particular indigo. Alfie was not a man to take things at face value. No, sir! He was a man of a curious inclination, always keen to investigate the universe's deeper mysteries, like the proper way to serve a cream tea.

So it was that Alfie set off on a crusade to unravel the enigma of indigo; was it a colour in its own right or just an alluring shade of blue? Armed with nothing but a hatful of quizzical looks and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, Alfie set out to find the answer.

The first stop was the town's resident expert on all matters philosophical; old Professor Cuthbertson, a man with a prodigious intellect and an even more prodigious mustache. "Indigo, you say? Balderdash, my dear boy! Pure poppycock! There's no such thing as indigo; just a lot of nonsense dreamed up by an overzealous scientist." Alfie's heart sank at the professor's words. Could it be true? Was indigo nothing more than a figment of the ancients' imagination, like the Loch Ness Monster or the perfect cup of tea?

Determined to get to bottom of the matter, Alfie decided to conduct a bit of scientific research for himself. But try as he might, he could find no trace of indigo; he found light blue in frothy blue clouds of Forget-me-nots, and a sea of dark blue nodding bluebells.

Defeated, Alfie walked home, his dreams of proving indigo authentic cruelly dashed upon the rocks of reality. As he sank into his favorite armchair, a curious sight caught his eye; a patch of fabric, hidden away in the back of his wardrobe, the colour a perfect blend of blue and violet. With a chuckle, Alfie jumped up to retrieve his paisley cummerbund. Indigo surely did exist, and this was the evidence and right under his nose the whole time, in the form of a teardrop-shaped motif with a curved upper end.

"Ah, Cuthbertson, my good man!" exclaimed Alfie, gesturing towards the garment he had laid upon the table. "Pray tell, what do you make of this color?" Ever the consummate gentleman's gentleman, Cuthbertson approached the table with a knowing gleam in his eye. He examined the fabric with the keen eye of a connoisseur.

"Ah, yes, sir," began Cuthbertson, his voice as smooth as the silk he was examining. "I believe what we have here is nothing more than a dark shade of blue, sir.” Alfie's brow furrowed in consternation. "But Cuthbertson, my dear man, surely this is an example of indigo, a hue distinct from all blues. Are you certain it is merely a shade of blue?" Cuthbertson nodded sagely, a knowing smile upon his lips. "Indeed, sir. Indigo is but a variation of blue; a deeper, richer shade, to be sure, but blue nonetheless. It's a common misconception, sir, but one that can easily be remedied by the removal of this rather gaudy garment."