One of the side effects of being a bit mental at the moment, is an inability to keep up with the myriad of daily tasks I'm supposed to be doing. Which is mostly why more than a month has gone by since I last wrote anything here.
So I'm turning over a new leaf to try and write more frequently, as I think it helps rather than hinders my mental state. Although more frequent posting may mean I'm writing about less riveting topics, such as paint.
When I first went to playgroup, or school, or some sort of gathering of children with organised activities, we were given the option to paint whenever we liked. Every day, clean pots of lovely shiny poster paint would be lined up before an easel, ready to be slowly turned into a uniform sludge colour by the end of the day.
Friday, however, was a special day, as in addition to all the colours of the rainbow, there would be a pot of beautiful velvety black.
By denying its use throughout the week (it made too much mess), black paint was fetishised for me. And now, I can't get enough of the stuff. I'm not likely to buy a pot and start painting anything, not having an artistic bone in my body, but I find myself thinking about it and looking at it when I'm in a particular frame of mind. Working in a primary school means I'm able to indulge myself as often as I like, and the nursery/reception teachers enjoy teasing me when I detour through their classroom and past the paint table to "have a look".
I shouldn't do this - I'm employed to define, analyse, intervene in and redirect such self-stimulatory behaviours in the autistic child I work with.
I'm currently denied my free access to the black paint (being on maternity leave), and I'm finding that the longer I go without it, the more I think about it. I think that's one thought I'll conceal from my GP/Health Visitor, for fear of them labelling me as more mental than I think I really am.
Although it does make me worry.
Today I have mostly been reading various Anna Pickard ramblings.
