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The Power of Black

Thanks to my mother, I have inherited the gift of anxiety. I find it hard to sit still and and I can

clock in hours of pacing some days. Don’t get me wrong, I'm the most hopeful person in the

world but I do have moments of what I call catastrophic thinking. You know the one when the

phone rings after nine PM and you’re instantly certain somebody must have died? Or you see

the number of your child’s school come up on your phone and you’re sure its because there is

probably a bomb squad or a shooter in the playground ? Well, that’s me.

Something in my home that has alway helped ground my over-active mind is the colour black.

There’s something black in every room in my house. It draws your eye and in my case it settles

me down. It’s solid, regal and elegant. Think about the front door of 10 Downing street. Or the store fronts of Paris. Black says don’t fuck with me. I’m a class act now, get out of my way.

I once painted all of the interior doors in an old victorian semi I’d bought, shiny black. It was a

rather tumultuous time in my life (I’ve had a few) and I felt a certain safety in closing those

doors when I tucked in at night.

What’s your colour? Experiment. Try having a little of it in every room. Somewhere you

can rest your eyes and breathe deeply for a moment. And then of course go to your fridge, pour

yourself a big glass of chardonnay and wait for that damn phone to ring.

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