The Writer mocks me, gently and often, for my choice of clothing colour, calling me out particularly when I wear a leather jacket with black jeans (apparently it channels Neo from the Matrix). I maintain dark colours are flattering and, in the words of the inimitable Saint Nora, “black makes your life so much simpler. Everything matches black, especially black.”
Which is why no one was more surprised than I was when I returned home one night a few weeks ago after dinner with DigiGal and The Equestrienne to find myself with a Zara bag containing a dress in the most lurid shade of hot pink. Like, whip out a pair of sunglasses and shield one’s eyes hot pink.
“Wow. That’s… not black,” TW said as he sat in the kitchen eating cornflakes and reading the football news on his iPad the following morning as I scrambled up the steps late for work and throwing all manner of unnecessary detritus into my bag.
I paused, and stood up straight, smoothing down the skirt.
“I know. I bought it for going to Italy in September in, but it’s so hot today I thought what the hell. What do you think?”
“It’s not black. I like it.”
Quite what possessed me, I really couldn’t tell you. Never before have I been anywhere near tempted to part with cash for an item of clothing that brings to mind nothing so much as a highlighter pen. Yet here we are.
And I’m alarmed that the purchase doesn’t appear to have been a one-off.
“Ooooh, colour!” The Equestrienne said as I met her for our regular Friday lunch.
“I know… I’m branching out, apparently,” I said, as we headed towards the queue for burritos in the place under her office, me in new jeans that were described on the label as “cranberry” but I have a sneaking suspicion are closer to maroon.
I’m not sure quite where this is going to end up. Hopefully cranberry jeans are the end of it. Because colours are one thing, but the faintest whiff of terrifying things like patterns and prints and I’m going straight back to black.