I've never been one for the colour green and have always thought it was best left to the garden and countryside. My dad wasn't a fan either though his dislike was linked to a belief that green was unlucky. For instance, he would never have considered buying a green car.
I did buy one. It was a used Ford Escort estate, my third car and the colour was a sort of metallic British Racing Green, a re-spray job by the previous owner. I used to park it in a car park over the road from where we lived at the time as we had no garage. One morning, I went to get into it to go to work but it wasn't there. The police found it later that day, unharmed and parked outside the house of the bloke who'd TWOC'd it. Apparently, he just hadn't fancied the walk home after a night in the pub.
Looking around me, though, I've been surprised to find evidence of the once avoided colour in various places:
On the kitchen wall.
On the floor.
In my mug.
It's been creeping into my jewellery box.
Even finding its way onto my feet.
Teamed, of course, with that old favourite of mine, black.