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I’ve been seeing a lot of these adult colouring books around the place of late. Seen articles about them on the net. Part of me wants to get involved; I love a good fad plus anything that makes me feel a bit more kid-like and creative is always good.

I have a few cross stitch packs left over from when I decided embroidery would be a wonderful way to keep myself occupied during my free time (this was loooooong before I started studying). It did entertain me for quite a few weeks right up until the time my eyes started hurting and I realised I’d fucked up the count and didn’t have enough of a certain thread left and was just generally shitty at sewing. So they are now gathering dust in the cupboard under our bookcase. Money well spent!

So colouring books are probably not the best idea for me. They look like fun. They’re wonderfully intricate and I can just imagine how fantastic they look when all filled in by actual adults who are able to stay between the lines. I told myself, “Go on, get one. You’ll love it.” But I won’t, I’ll be honest, even as a child I wasn’t a massive fan of colouring in.

I remember this one particular time in Grade One when we had the principal, Mrs Bourke (can’t believe I remember her name!), standing in for our regular teacher. She must have wanted to keep us quiet so she got us all cutting out pictures and colouring things in. I was sooooo bored. I made a conscious effort to do the worst possible cutting and colouring. I smeared glue everywhere. She was walking around looking at everyone’s work and congratulating them on their stellar efforts. That came to a sudden halt when she got to me.

I’m sure she entertained the notion that I’d had a mild stroke or gone feral. I was usually a very bright and compliant child but not today. Today cutting out and colouring in was not what I wanted to be doing and I was determined to make my feelings known. She wasn’t having it though. I remember she made me recut my shitty work and gave me new colouring sheets with strict instructions to “stay between the lines”, a command I’ve hated ever since, to be honest.

So there you have it. My rebellious nature and innate hatred of boredom has ruined me for what could be an enjoyable and much less expensive hobby than cross stitch embroidery. Or maybe I can forget about adult colouring in books and go dig out my dusty embroidery. Or maybe I don’t need another goddamn hobby; I have far too little time as it is.

Image credit: The Telegraph

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