This is How it Works

As far back as I can recall, I never had a “home”. I had a house – in fact, after my parents got divorced, I had two – but they were never homes. My birth home is England, but we moved to Australia when I was four, so I suppose that makes Australia my second home. It never felt like one though – with my weird accent, unusual brain and know-it-all attitude, it was no question I was eventually going to be bullied, I just didn’t know it at the time. I quickly learnt to change the only obvious part of myself, and lost most of my English accent in favour of a more neutral Anglo-Aussie hybrid, which seemed to help things, even if only a little. I tried not to cry, and I speedily learnt the fine art of emotional repression *go me!* but there were times I would break down in the bathroom or fake sick days to avoid being in that environment. And when I did break down, there was always one common theme to my tears, something we’ve all heard from a scared child – “I want to go home.” ...

I used to hate orange. You know when you're a kid and you're shown that paint colour wheel and you pick a favourite colour, and a least favourite? When you're a kid, it's so black and white - I love pink, I hate yellow, I love blue, I hate grey etc. Well I used to HATE orange. I thought it was too bright, and boring and clashed with everything and it was just yuck.  But recently it occurred to me that when someone, namely me, pictures the colours, you don't imagine the full spectrum of shades and combinations. You, that is, I, picture that silly colour wheel and those dull primary colours. Why? Why do I do that? When someone asks me what my favourite colour is, I don't picture that bright, boring, plain red from the colour wheel when I tell them my answer. I'm picturing the shades of red that remind me of good times - the lipstick my best friend wears, the dark crimsons of my favourite nail polish, the cherry red of my hair, oozing dark reds in horr...