Underwater Rockets

Christmas has come early with Rick returning to me the Precious Folder containing my collection of colour sample cards for paint.

I appreciate that as a comparatively functional human being I really shouldn't own such a thing, let alone admit to it. My life doesn't revolve around a games console, I don't have a penchant for trigonometry and I can't quote anything by Stephen Hawkins. I can talk to people face-to-face in a really very pleasant manner - not at all like those boys in the Department of Computation* at the University where I was temping, who may well have been the next Einstein but blushed and stammered furiously at every exchange. Bless them, it was possibly the first time they had spoken/mumbled to a real-life unrelated female.

However, I'm a shameless geek when it comes to all things decorating.

I can't quite seem to help myself picking up a handful of the little colour cards from the special display cabinet every time I go to B&Q. I love Farrell & Ball and I have a special place in my heart for Craig & Rose. The words Laura and Ashley spoken in the same sentence can unleash an unbridled passion Jane Austen would have shied away from. But all of this is, I believe, forgivable. Let's be honest, the Laura Ashley catalogue and magazines of the 'Period Home' ilk are house porn and I have a number of friends who like to indulge. Sharing house porn isn't quite as unsavoury as its earthier cousin - it's quite acceptable practice actually.

The shameful bit is owning a file in which I've organised catalogues, brochures, colour cards and magazine articles. It makes me feel a bit like a serial killer. Normal on the outside "oooh, she seemed so nice, you'd never have known!" but freaky obsessive in the comfort of my own home.


* I still think they made that word up - the person who founded that particular department may well have been terribly clever with computers but I suspect a poor grasp of English.