Rosemary hates my new hall colour


I have just painted my hall two shades of rather vibrant green, with my friends Olga and Munch helping. It was terrifically hard work, especially the ceiling. We had a perilous plank and ladder construction for the high bits, but it was all worth it. The nasty, peeling woodchip has gone, and instead of looking like a dreary squat/dog kennel, it looks like a proper, grownup home – bright, clean and almost uplifting, we thought. Until Rosemary came round for a look.

I suspected that she might not be thrilled, because as my neighbour said, the colours were "up in bravery world", so I warned everyone not to expect praise. In came Rosemary. She walked straight through the hall grimly, her mouth clamped shut, eyes half-closed, as if two parallel rivers of vomit were running alongside her, at which she preferred not to look, until she reached the haven of the near-magnolia kitchen, where Munch asked her opinion.

"It looks like a psychiatric hospital," said Rosemary, pitilessly. How mean. If only she'd just said something normal, like "Yuk" or "I hate it", I could have coped, but she had to say the sort of thing that keeps me awake at night. Could there be a grain of truth in her critique?

Luckily no one agreed with Rosemary. I had to ask the world for reassurance, even though Munch, Olga and I all went to art school and Rosemary didn't, so we knew better than her, plus I expected her to regret her rudeness after a while and apologise. But no such luck, because she knew I was planning gold banisters and a hyacinth blue kitchen floor.

"You're going for these stupid, flamboyant colours, which you won't like," snapped Rosemary, unrepentant, "and this murderous blue is silly. You'll walk in and you'll say, 'Bloody hell, what have I done?!'" So I've been telling everyone exactly what Rosemary said, and they all think she has no taste, and I mustn't take any notice. The hall looks stunningly attractive, and they can't understand why Rosemary and I are still friends. And sometimes, neither can I.