Sure, go on about how cheerful a color it is, how it brings sunshine into your life, how it automatically makes people feel all rainbow-y and unicorn-y.
Hate it. 99% of the time, it trends towards mustard baby poop yellow (lighter and darker shades thereof) or ooey gooey baby-nursery-yellow (lighter and darker shades thereof). Our house, lovingly (and creatively!) named The Yellow House, is one of the ugliest shades on the planet: the color of congealed banana pudding blended with stomach bile.
Fine: yes it is a signature color of both Cezanne and Matisse, it evokes the baking heat of Southern France, and one could scarcely make a dijon vinaigrette without it.
Yes, and now you mention it, the memories of vast fields of rapeseed in springtime England, with bright flowers transferring their glow onto your t-shirt and winter-pale skin DO stick in my mind.
On one of our college-era adventures. Somewhere in the wilds of Berkshire.
Oh.......... and the daffodils.
In the ugly pseudo-modern planned community of Bracknell, some bright minded bureaucrat (probably quite junior) came up with a plan for establishing huge swathes of daffodil fields on the roundabouts, on the embankments of council housing and even in the grim town center shopping district. Sheer genius: paint the town with the shade of sunshine, and they'll never notice they don't have any.
I might not make it through March without the daffodils.
Just when you think you Will. Not. Survive. one more cold gray day, you notice a small bunch of narcissus at the grocery store checkout. The yellow of a daffodil works its way right into your cold gray heart, and promises the thaw that's coming.
This has been a particularly bleak March - full of gray days and lots of storms, both inside and out. I have never been more grateful to welcome a little bit of yellow back into our lives.