Pretty In Pink?

"Pink isn't just a colour.  It's an attitude."

- Miley Cyrus

Now I wouldn't normally be found casually quoting the wise words of pop enfant and intellectual genius (what?), Miley Cyrus, but this time it does seem quite appropriate.  If you had asked me a few weeks ago whether I liked the colour pink, I probably would have replied "...." no wait, I wouldn't have replied at all.  Instead, assuming you were about to produce something pink to show me, I would have run like a mad man directly to the horizon and beyond. I mean, just think Barbara Cartland...

In fact, if I had stuck around to say anything, I probably would have declared that it was the most hideous colour on the planet and that I wouldn't be seen dead in, on or beside anything pink.  But oh, how wrong I was.  I'm not saying that pink is a gorgeous colour and should be celebrated for its adorable fluffiness, but rather that, as always happens when I say anything with any conviction and confidence, I am immediately proven totally wrong.  Again and again.

A few weeks ago a blogger friend of mine, Nordljusfollowyourstar, devoted some time to discussing her favourite colours, one of which was a bit pinkish, and I say "pinkish" because it immediately became apparent that saying "I don't like pink" was a bit like saying "I don't like buildings" when what you really mean is "I don't like 1960's brutalist concrete apartment blocks."  Of course, there are loads of buildings I like, and some which I absolutely adore.  I'm even sitting in one right now.  And in a similar vein, I quickly realised that right now I have 4 shirts in my wardrobe, that I wear on a regular basis, and that any normal person would immediately recognise as pink, so I could hardly say that I wouldn't be seen dead in pink.  And have you ever noticed that once you start thinking about something, it crops up absolutely everywhere?
I'm sure if I said right now "You don't see women with beehive hairdo's any more" I would then see four a day for the next two weeks.  And that's how it's been this week with the colour that looks like pink (and that's what I'll be calling it from now on.)  Now I haven't always had my camera with me so you'll just have to trust me when I say that the colour that looks like pink (CTLLP) was easily the most common colour everywhere I turned this week, and there was no subtlety about it.  It started on Tuesday when I needed to go to Exeter, my nearest city, for a 2-day training course.  Imagine my horror when this little sports car arrived to collect me.  I only had my phone to take a picture so it hasn't picked up the full effect of the thousands of tiny sparkles in the paint!  Worse still, I had drawn the short straw and had to sit in the back which was impossible to do without banging my head quite painfully, several times.  Yes, believe it or not there are seats in the back of this thing, and it feels like you're in a goldfish bowl or an astronaut's helmet - not too bad in the cool of the morning, but in the full sun of the afternoon... phew!  I remember being dropped off in the middle of the town at a bus stop where about 20 people were waiting for their evening bus home, all of whom had the small joy of seeing me bang my head once more on the way out, and one young girl saying "Look mum, it's a Barbie car!" 

I suppose I wouldn't have minded if it had been Penelope Pitstop's fiery little sports car

or Lady Penelope's Rolls Royce (and I wonder why they were both called Penelope..?)

but Barbie?!?  Sigh...

Anyway, while we are on the car subject, I had been keeping my eye out for one particular car that I had seen around town from time to time, but hadn't yet caught on film (what do we say now that we don't use film any more - "caught on sensor?")

Whatever.  As if by magic I found it parked in a lane behind my house a few days ago so, hoping that the driver wouldn't return in the next 5 minutes, I whizzed home to get my camera and grabbed this little shot.  I'm guessing that the driver got quite annoyed with people saying "Your car's got a pink roof" and rather than paint it a different colour, which would be my choice every time, they stencilled the correct name for the colour on the side.  Genius.

So what else have I seen this week to make my eyes cry in pain?  Well, any talk about the colour that looks like pink would be incomplete without the house that sits under the cliffs down at West Bay, which the owner has very thoughtfully just repainted for all the summer holidaymakers to enjoy and photograph, or cover their eyes and wish they had bought darker sunglasses.

And then there's the Bombay Nights Indian takeaway restaurant in nearby Dorchester, and I think they are missing a big marketing opportunity by not having a small fleet of similarly-coloured motorcycles to deliver their wares.

And then yesterday, as I was strolling around the Saturday market my eye was drawn to a whole stall of gifts for girls including these very girlie notebooks and even a garish leather-bound clock -
imagine the kitchen that that would look good in!







Even in our vintage quarter, which is definitely worth a visit if you're ever in Bridport, I spied through another car's windows this writing on a truck which just about encapsulated the whole spirit of this blog.

But the best I have saved to last - OK, so I didn't see it this week - they've long since changed the display, but at the time I couldn't resist taking a photo of this window display in one of the more expensive and exclusive gentlemen's stores in town.  Pink pants.

I don't even want to imagine a situation where those would be considered suitable underwear.




Let's finish this silly little journey through the world of the colour that looks like pink with a quote by the delightful Audrey Hepburn, and I hope she wouldn't mind too much if I alter the order of this to suit my purpose.

I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe in manicures. I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe that tomorrow is another day, I believe in miracles. I believe in pink.

Of course, I believe in many of those things too, but I don't have to have them, do I?

And The Band Played On

Every so often, on a Saturday morning, a brightly coloured marching band invades our town and takes over the curiously-named Bucky-Doo Square to entertain and amuse the weekend shoppers. I've noticed it's not always the same band, according to the sashes and emblems that adorn their uniforms and instruments and this puzzles me somewhat. Firstly, if memory serves correctly, just about every town I've ever lived in has had at least 1 brass band, not including all the junior military bands that appear out of the woodwork for the occasional group march to a church, or in front of a float at carnival time. And secondly, try as I might, I can't really say with any conviction that there is anything noticeably different between them all, either in the way they look or indeed, what they play.

Now I'm sure if you are one of those who make up these fine traditions, that you will vehemently defend your band as one which plays new, modern songs, rather than the same old, weary tunes that they've been playing for 100 years, but why is it that I always hear the same ones? For the life of me I can't recall anything more modern than The Beatles or an Elvis tune, or to put it another way, anything that was written in my lifetime, and technically-speaking, I'm old enough to be a grandfather without anyone breaking any laws.

So why do these bands have to tour? Why does our band travel halfway across the country to someone else's town square while their local band travels the opposite journey to perform more or less the same repertoire, on the same instruments in ours? So far as I know, and please correct me if you know otherwise, there are not sufficient atmospheric differences to make "It's A Long Way To Tipperary" sound refreshingly different if performed 50 miles away. Similarly, if there are vastly different ways to play Colonel Bogey on a xylophone, then I can't pick them out.

And while we're on the subject, just because "Hound Dog" was a hit for The King, it doesn't mean it automatically translates to the military band with the same foot-tapping, rock and roll beat. Instead it sounds like something you would hear from a cheap electric keyboard on demo mode.

Having said all that, each Saturday I make my way, with camera, up to the town square with a little bit of hope that one of these bands might have decided to gather for our amusement, and there is often an equal sense of disappointment when all I see are a couple of tables of random, second-hand, let's be honest, junk being sold in the hope of buying a tiny primary school in a village I've never heard of a new set of colouring pens.

As you can probably guess by now, I am not eagerly rushing to the square to listen to the band, but rather to photograph them. They really are a photographer's dream when it comes to human subjects that can't move, hide, argue or object in any way, and with the added bonus of shiny, reflective musical instruments (which are always, always good in a photo) and brightly-coloured uniforms cleaned and pressed to within an inch of their military lives. Most of the time, when walking through the town with my camera, I feel I'm about to be arrested at any moment for accidentally taking a photo of someone's feet without written permission obtained three weeks in advance. But this will never happen with the band. In fact, the absolute worst that happens is that with just a cheery grin and a raising of the eyebrows (I don't actually know what sentiment I'm conveying with either of these actions) I reach an unspoken agreement that I can take as many photos as I like provided I've put £1 in their collection tin. Now that's got to be a bargain.

On this particular Saturday we had a band with a conductor determined to provide us more than the usual entertainment for our money. Whether that was because the Mayor (accompanied by numerous admiring ladies) had slipped almost unnoticed into the crowd of onlookers it's hard to say, but I suspect not.

Military bands do not usually lend themselves to much audience participation, I suppose mainly because most people do not take their tubas or glickenspiels in their pockets when they go shopping, but this guy took even that to the next level by allowing members of the public to actually conduct the band. Now, whether or not conductors are really needed to keep well-trained musicians in time is a topic for another post entirely, but you can't deny there is a little risk in handing over "control" to someone who may have just strolled out of a nearby pub after a thoroughly enjoyable liquid lunch. But in this case it worked a treat. Somehow, of all the people he could have chosen to hand the baton to, he picked the one person who you felt had lived their entire life waiting for just this moment to let her rhythmic energy loose. She took to it with such enthusiasm and passion it was a miracle she didn't take someone's eye out. Even the trumpet players, whose eyes always appear to be on the point of bursting free from their sockets, somehow managed to open them wider still and raise their eyebrows to yet another impossible level. It really was the icing on a musical cake.

Maybe one day I might have the confidence to travel with one of these bands, as their unofficial/ official photographer, to try and discover and document why on earth they swap towns with other, seemingly identical bands, but for now I thank them for making the effort, for entertaining us in the face of my cinicism, and allowing me a few different faces in which to poke my lens. Plus, whether I like it or not, I must say the uncontrollable tapping must have been good exercise for my foot.