“It’s so nice…”
I need to add here that I’m often told by churchgoers that my voice is like chocolate, velvet, a brick wrapped in a sock etc. Being practised in the art of graciously accepting these compliments, I’m already beaming and nodding.
“… to sit behind someone who…”
… can wallop through Thine Be The Glory like Kiri Te Kanawa at a hen party? Belt a top E with the grace of an extremely large blackbird?
“… likes wearing colour as much as I do.”
Country attire is an odd combination of Demure and Dazzling. On the Demure bench: women and children in a tasteful range of beige, baby pink, watery blue, dove grey. On the Dazzling bench: men. Young and old, fat and skinny, receding and blessed with enough hair to thatch a tractor, country chaps parade their wares in a rainbow of mustard, pink, turquoise, orange, maroon and said chartreuse. The voltage rises with age, so that while a man of thirty may risk a flash of royal blue sock above a chestnut loafer, his retired colonel counterpart sports sunflower-yellow cords, a pink and green checked shirt and a slash of ruby-red knitwear with sublime disregard.
I’ve noticed the opposite is true in urban circles. Women and children: lime greens, shocking pinks, neon yellow hoodies and silver sandals. Men: navy, black and olive-green. The peacock / peahen thing is completely turned on its head. Odd. Thank goodness for Matt Smith, frankly.
On Easter morning I was wearing spearmint, orange, yellow, magenta, red, cream, pale pink and forest green. That was just the skirt. A turquoise biker jacket and purple handbag finished my ensemble. Safely one of the guys.