There’s something about pink that I never could like, even as a little girl. I’m not sure if it’s the colour itself, or the connotations associated with it: ‘Pink is for girls, pink is feminine, pink is frilly’. Oh alright, sometimes I wish I was a bit fluffier, but it if its to involve Pinkishness, I’d rather continue being as cuddly as a sea-urchin and have done with it.
Then again, perhaps it’s the way pink stands out – I don’t wear neon orange either – I’ve no desire to be seen coming over the horizon like a rising sunset. I like being able to fade into the background at will with chameleon-like cunning.
Perhaps its just my sense of aesthetics: the idea that bright colours should be used sparingly if at all, or the temptation to whip on a pair of sunglasses becomes overwhelming.
As for painting whole rooms pink, its awfully unsettling, like being cocooned in candy-floss: so sweet its sickening. Cape Town presented me with the pinkest room I’ve ever seen, and since it was a ladies’ restroom and my need was great, I entered this roseate room of pervasive pinkness – the trauma will no doubt remain with me eternally.
Apart from the pink walls, the floor was painted a particularly noxious shade of green. I usually like green, but not like this, and not with all that pink! The toilet seats were the piece de resistance: glittery transparent purple plastic things with plastic butterflies and flowers set into them like gruesome Disney fossils on whom the wrath of China has been inflicted. Delightful: and so tasteful! Ah, and I love spreading delight around, so you may share with me… Perhaps you too will prance forth with a manic grin.
Pink, pinker, pinkest.