Red is My Favourite Colour

I have to be honest with you from the get-go. Red is, in fact, not my favourite colour. It hovers somewhere between blue and green, and I should probably just settle on turquoise.

It’s funny how this strange “fact” came to be. Mothers are these strange omniscient beings that somehow seem to pick up on every fib you try to run past them. They also buy clothes for you randomly, and they fit better than if you had of been there to try them on. My mother is also like this, she knows everything.

Except, of course, my favourite peanut butter type. I’m quite the contrary person, which drives her up the wall, and also drives her to believe that I’m into the opposite of her favourite things. This led to many a supermarket shops where she would come home with smooth peanut butter, even though we both prefer crunchy.

In a similar vein, when I moved out of home, Mum (and Dad) got me my first cutlery set.
You might think, coming into my home and looking at my kitchen, that red is my favourite colour. The decorations, of course, would suggest it.

At the time of the cutlery purchase, none of these items were in my inventory. I had gone out with Mum for the basics, pots, pans, knives, plates (which, by the way, are blue). Mum wouldn’t let me buy cutlery.

When we got home, and packed everything into moving boxes, Mum and Dad gathered me up to give me a present. Out comes the Milly’s bag, a Ponsonby kitchenware store which is, to put it lightly, quite a nice shop. The box is about the right size to hold a set of cutlery (I’m not stupid, of course, I did pick up that mum wouldn’t let me buy my cutlery at good ol’ Briscoes)

Here is probably as good a place as any to mention that I wear my heart on my sleeve. Professionally, I’m getting a lot better, but in my personal life my feelings show plainly on my face.

I open the box, and my smile falters. In the quick seconds I try to recover, and be gracious at accepting this (what truly is awesome) gift, my Mum doesn’t miss a beat.

“You hate red.”

“I hate red.”

These horrific little utensils were staring up at me out of their box, reminding me of the many peanut butter arguments.

“I can exchange them, I can take them back. They had blue.”

I laugh, and hug the box. Mum visibly relaxes. It wouldn’t be the same if she returned them. These are the ones she picked out, these are the ones I’ll use.

So, I move in with Pete, my bright red cutlery in tow. He goes shopping for our appliances, and comes home with these to match.

I’m horrifed, disgusted, and laughing my ass off. Our landlords happen to leave the red bottles behind which blend perfectly, and my Oma buys me the red birds that sit on the windowsill.

A perfectly colour-coded kitchen, and a hilarious story, all thanks to my Mother’s mistake.




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