I am the eleventh one: Orange. Your squashed orange for breakfast, the apricot, the sweet orange-tree in the garden, and the bitter-sweet orange marmalade. And candied peel, perhaps bathed in dark chocolate.

Hibiscus flowers, just to name one. Fairytale mushrooms, or real-life golden chanterelles, to enjoy in autumn, with Vivaldi in the background.

But I'm an Eastern color: the gauze robes of the Buddhist monks: "Ohm!" And what comes in the Eastern sky, after white and pink dawn? When the sun peeps over the horizon, I walk with him for a while, before it brightens up and rises to full daylight. This makes me the color of waiting, of promise, of happiness. And I'm a color of peace too, the peace of inner meditation, of a voice that makes your body quiver and raises your mind to a sky full of light.

So, wherever you want some harmony and happiness in your house, there I am at home: I can be the cushions on the floor, where you sit to smell your incense, or a designer's couch. But I won't disdain some everyday tablecloth, perhaps together with Blue in a tartan pattern. Flowers, now? Too many to name. And orange-flecked butterflies. Perhaps you won't know these too well, but I'm also the lantern-shaped bladder cherries, and ripe loquats, that traveled long, long ago from the East to the whole world.