Today I have such an urge to Francify my name, and when I answer the phone I want to say ‘The Colin A residence, this is the lady of the house speaking”. Our inerrant sense of style is having a bit of a clash, and I’m feeling somewhat like the Bucket woman from television.
Imagine this, we’re doing a bit of cleaning, and part of that process is taking the table cloth on the kitchen table and putting it in the bin that will go over to Auntie’s so that we can wash it. In a flurry of creativity, Mark reveals a table cloth that his mother has given him.
It it floral. Stylised roses, daffodils, and tulips in grand patterns. It is very bright and colourful, and absolutely hideous. So, I suggest we should put on something else, like the coffee crème coloured thing we have in the wardrobe, instead of the monstrous thing. It would go well with our (mostly) metal surface appliances like the tea kettle and the toaster.
Then we can have a dash, just a dash, of colour that will high-light something – rather than turning the whole kitchen into a colour riot that Salvador Dali might have painted. While it is fun to have these little stylistic arguments with someone that has far too rustic a taste sometimes, it is exhausting too.
So, I almost want to adopt the attitude of Hyacinth Bucket from “Keeping up appearences”. It is only that Mark would make a pretty bad Richard. He doesn’t have the patience to be the long suffering victim of a social-snob, and would probably stuff me in the wash-bin after five minutes.
I have to remember that he has more muscles than me, and the only times I win wrestling him is when I tickle him, and he’s catching onto that, the sly bastard.