I want to buy a vintage bicycle and paint it red. Not just any red, you understand, but lipstick red. Jungle red. Maybe even lipstick jungle red.
On the front there will be a basket, also painted- lime green, or kindergarten yellow. Or blue, just blue, so blue it won’t need a qualifying descriptor.
The bike will match the spills of paint on my loft floor boards, because that’s where I painted it- right in the middle of everything. That room will smell like turps, and all my furniture will be up-cycled antiques that won’t match anything else I own. People will think: who threw up the rainbow paint fairy? when they walk into that room, and I’ll just smile and make them sit on the yellow and zebra-stripes armchair to punish them. Maybe they twitch, disconcerted, but the chai I serve in powder blue tea cups is worth the eye sore. I make good chai, sometimes.
When they leave I get back to work, restoring this and that, or starting my new collection. There’s a wall, made of packing crates varnished to a high gloss, that has all the crazy things that I want pinned to it. It doesn’t match the other side, which has a million framed prints hung neatly.
But that’s the flavour of the room.
The bedroom might not exist yet, or maybe it’s in another part of the house. Not ever being able to decide on a theme for that room, it doesn’t meet the requirements of a dream-home. I do know it has a day-bed on a small, tiny even, balcony. The balcony is red, and I like this because I lean over it to make sure the bike is still there,
tied up nicely in my metre square front garden,
as red as anything.
By Danielle K. Day