Favourite Schmavourite
Having a favourite toy I could understand. A favourite film, yes, why not? Favourite running shoes, of course. But having a favourite colour? That was never something I was particularly big on. I couldn’t ever see the point in it, and there was a point to having a favourite anything else, so why shouldn’t there be a point in the case of this? What does it mean? I thought. Why should I waste my time thinking about it? All throughout my life, you see, I have come across people who thought that if you didn’t have a favourite colour then there was something wrong with you. That you were weird and identity-less. They’re the weirdos, not me!
When I was six it was Margaret Hadgencomb. She was my first love and her favourite colour was green. Not just any green, oh no, but Emerald. So for about six months I had to pretend that anything and everything Emerald coloured was the greatest thing ever. Which was hard, seeing as I was repulsed by Green.
When I was fourteen it was Mary Night. She loved Pink. And yes, so for a while I also loved Pink.
Then, when I was eighteen, and I was trying to get Tracy Bardey to lie down with me on her bed, just to relax, I snapped. She had just said “I love the colour orange, don’t you?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “I hate it!”
It was good therapy, although it didn’t much help
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