He wears cerise, but not when meloncholy.

A fiver says he’ll wear the pink one.

You’re on. 

So went a conversation at the table quiz last week before I arrived wearing a baby-blue number, tee-shirt that is. Tee-shirt in its broadest sense. Not a garment for a Marlboro light pull-through, not fitted or with matching 501s. No, fashionable in a treble XL comfortable way, like only a fat fucker gets away with. The other one isn’t pink either, cerise or fuchsia dependant on mood, my mood.  

Get way from me Dad. 

It’s Gay Dad.  

Daaaaaad.

Are you cirius?  

Comments from my less then enlightened kids, but I needed colours brother. Life was dull, a total gray out for a while there. The monotony thing mixed up with melancholy man, and then I saw those jelly babies in Foot-locker, four for twenty quid, how bad. Real sizes too, man sizes, XL to XXXL, and in six different colours. So I’ve bought twelve so far and rotate them, as my mood takes me. I’m never melancholy in cerise.  

That colour thing, gray thing, that black and white Christian Brother fists like clubs thing, and when I met Boomie last Friday night at a glass breaking, tight jeans and mini-skirted eighteenth birthday party, we remembered why he’d been mitching for six months all that time ago. Boomie, Ferret, Whacker and Chili all running scared from Wart. That’s hopefully a very dead Christian Brother Vaughan folks, Ardscoil Rís, Limerick, circa. 1970’s, abuser of children, killer of dreams. Concussions were common , Boomie partially deaf thirty five years later. Wart would make us kneel down, face a wall, cower and wait, while he picked his own special time to smash you, across your head and into the wall. The smart stayed down, the defiant went deaf. Blood, concussion and disbelieving parents who sent you back the same afternoon. What colour is malignant? 

Omar Shariff, our seven year old charmer tells me that he likes my tee-shirts and then giggles kaleidoscopically with his brother. That’s the giggling colour, swirly rainbow dropping reds, oranges, pinks and greens, infectious finger painting messy deep helpless belly laughing, and Omar Shariff has it in spades. 

Dad, you smell 

Huh

Like a flower

Thanks Omar

That’s been peed on 

Omar! 

By an angel

Ahhhh……...

From Hell

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4 responses to “He wears cerise, but not when meloncholy.

  1. It’s hard living with the fashion police.

    “What color is malignant?”
    Very nice. I would say pink is malignant to passify and infantilize women but point taken.

  2. Hi Medbh,

    Could you tell daughter Darla that please. She so luves pink. By her own admission, it’s “her” colour. Most recently she wanted a pink house key. I try to explain connotation and context, but hormone is all powerful.

    Did I mention that I prefer cerise myself.

    Good luck

  3. I’m a female and pink is a colour, and certain types of pink, deep womb like, and I are attracted to each other. I often wish I could do the French thing with tones of sludge but I just end up looking like pig swill. Red can be good but it has its own connotations so has to be handled with care.

    Nice writing, I see you are a poet too.

  4. Hi Eryl,

    Pink is the new black, well in our house anyway. Pink everything and it’s devious, somewhat like Medbh said above. We could do red as well, a nice cabernet whatever you’re having yourself, or a full blown revolutionary red, we’ve loads of that. Your poem on the story teller blog was excellent. Will there be more?

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