I’ve got a thing about colour (yes c o l o u r).
A childlike delight in great swags of blues and reds, primary colours on the biggest canvasses I can find, my walls. It’s probably an indicator of a lack of sophistication on my behalf, or of nuance, style and subtlety, but I can’t do pastels. I have no affinity with lilac. Beige, rose, lavender and peach are anathema to me.
My decorating skills are as unsophisticated as my taste. The colour I’ve chosen goes on to the wall without preparation with a splish, splash, splosh. I can’t be bothered with fiddly bits, the corners, or staying in the lines. I’ve painted round wardrobes in the past just to hurry the moment where I can step back and enjoy the overall effect.
Nothing’s safe, there’s generally as much paint on me as there is on the walls. I’ve had purple hands, bright yellow hair and on one occasion a pillar box red dog when Charlie pushed the bathroom door open and fell sleep under the radiator in there. I had to literally tear him off the wall in the morning.
On a different note or a sloppy segue, I finally have a appointment to see the neurologist for my scan. February the 14th, how’s that for a Valentine’s day? Perhaps they’ll discover what the problem is – or perhaps I’ll take photo’s of my home and I won’t need surgery after all, just 20 gallons of insipid paint….