April/May 2002 - Addicted to Colour by M. Hunter-Gray

My name is Michelle, and I am addicted to colour.

Oh and shape…..and then there is texture….I'm sure I am not the only one whose bathroom is full of soaps, smooth, round and creamy white. Or delicate shell shapes in pastel shades, far to pretty use. Bottles, tall, slim and elegant, filled with bath oil or bubble bath, whose colours glow like jewels in the window. Then of course there is my dressing table. The draw full of eyeshadows I will never use, but whose endless shades of colour were too difficult to resist. The bottle of perfume, twenty years old, its aroma long since faded into memory, but whose shape continues to delight. Did I mention the kitchen? The oil whose deep, rich colour and unusual container were to tempting to ignore.

It all began many years ago with embroidery threads, buttons and the occasional ball of knitting yarn. And the only shop in town where one could buy threads, needles, silks and other necessities.

Tiny, overcrowded - wool, hoops, needlework boxes, spilling out from shelves stacked to the ceiling - jostling each other for space and tempting with the thrill of exploration.. It was always dark except close to the window. And in that tiny patch of sunlight stood 'wonderland'. A set of beautiful, polished wooden drawers. Wide and deep, but shallow, standing in isolation just behind the counter on the left of the entrance.

From the age of around 12 until just a few years ago I made regular visits to this magical place. I can still hear the bell that rang as you opened the door, summoning one of two old ladies from the mysterious back room. (I swear they were always old - some indeterminate age that never changed although I did)!

Slipping quietly in, I would eagerly take in the fascinating jumble of goods, a little self-conscience under the watchful eye of the owner. Drawing out the moment until I could resist temptation no longer and finally approached my real goal.

'I want some embroidery threads, please' I would ask diffidently,
'what colour?' the brief reply.

How I loved that moment of decision, the excitement of randomly
picking one word out of the air, the key to 'wonderland'.

'red.....?'

Once said, the appropriate draw would slide silently out from its home to reveal row upon row of red. Every shade from the palest pink, that alone would look almost white, to the deepest, darkest ruby, or maroon, or scarlet or .... oh variegated and in later years metallic.

Each draw held the promise of long lingering choosing between subtle shades of red, green, yellow .... a wonderland of colours.
How I loved that shop. How I loved those coloured threads, many of which seemed to find their way into a box beneath my bed, some used, most just enjoyed for what they were. Beautiful and irresistible.

The shop is closed now. I walked past it only the other day, now transformed into a trendy coffee bar. But somehow I still saw a dark, dusty, overcrowded shop, two old ladies in hand knitted cardigans and that secret wonderland of rainbows that was once hidden there.