Taste Good or Bad

 It's a funny old world isn't it? I know that's a cliche and we writers are not supposed to use them. I was thinking about taste good and bad. Where are the taste police, who are they and what are their credentials. Do they pass exams? Who judges them. Everything is judged these days. It's not just in competitions it's in every part of life. Food, clothes, houses, furniture, gardens, looks hairstyles, body image to name a few. I blame the internet. 

Anyway I really want to talk about my Dad. He had bad taste. Don't ask me how I know that his taste was bad but my mother, my brothers and sister all agreed so we knew that we were right.  There was no  internet to challenge us at that time.

He loved to go on holiday to Spain and he generously brought back presents for all of us. One I remember turned out to be quite useful although it was quite hideous to look at. You could say that it offended one's sense of taste. I'll try to describe it and see if you agree. It was a plastic plaque which was made to look like wood with a row of hooks at the bottom on which to hang ones keys. So far so good - useful you can say.  Mounted on the plaque was a very shiny photograph which had a fancy, golden, plastic, decorative frame. Inside the frame was a flamenco dance. Not a photograph but a dancer wearing a white satin dress with a red lacey frill.  She had thick black hair and red shoes. All this was stitched on. Embarrassed as I was to have this next to my front door I used it for years. In fact I used it until the dancer wore herself out and fell off. 

 My  Father's pride and joy  sat on the dining room table for some years. It was a plastic pond. Quite a large affair. Big enough in fact for a group of lily pads with flowers of course on which sat a rather large, plastic of course, frog. It's defining feature was it's illuminations. 

At at this point I should mention that we all had to live with my Dad's bad taste but my mother suffered most of all. My mother unlike my father had rather good taste. I remember one year in particular she decorated the living room in subtle colours. She painted the ceiling in white and the paint work in cream. The walls were papered with an embossed paper in a subtle pale turquoise and grey. When my father came home from work he thought he would add to the newly decorated look. He painted the light switch bright red. When visitors came to admire our newly decorated living room he said, " Don't you think the red light switch sets it all off?"

Now for the piece de resistance. This was not from Spain but Holland. You've guessed it he brought back a windmill. I am sure there are very tasteful windmills in the shops in Holland but ----. Let me describe to you my father's windmill.

It was plastic as was usual, not a discreet little model but a rather large, in fact, a very large model. It was bright red and white. The sails rotated of course and just to improve on the plastic pond it not only lit up but played a tune. So a two foot high plastic rotating, illuminated, musical windmill. Now tell me that that isn't good taste.