Sometimes I look back over my day and think, well that was 24 hours of what’s left of my threescore year and ten I just wasted; but today isn’t one of them. Today I painted my downstairs hall; washed and hung out and brought in again to the final value of pi; made breakfast, lunch and dinner; cleaned up after breakfast, lunch and dinner; went to the chippy to collect the dinner; paid bills at the bank; walked the dogs; and a hundred little jobs besides. Admittedly, I delegated some of those jobs but I know the hall painting and shoving stuff into the machine to the final value of pi were mine.
The re-decorating goes on. I like painting and I dislike wallpapering so a lot of the re-decorating i.e. all of it, involves painting over wallpaper. Let its removal be the next man’s problem, because it certainly isn’t mine. So long as the wall looks good, who cares if it’s going to take a blow torch and a pitchfork to strip the old paper? My walls look goooooood. Not all of the walls in the hall: the side going up the stairs doesn’t need decorating because no holes were made in it, nor unsightly brown plaster left for me to cover up. Besides, it took me six years to finish that bit and I’m not painting over it again five minutes later.
I can’t take credit for the colour: that’s the Hub’s department. He has a great eye for colour (the left one); he once took a photography course and was the only person ever to achieve 100% on the colour test. Don’t ask me what was involved in the test because I never listen to him so I wouldn’t know; though I did hear ’100%’ and gave him a pound as a reward.
When we were choosing paint, he liked Pebble and said it would match the wallpaper in the hall; I didn’t like it but I remembered why I was a pound out of pocket and bowed to his superior judgement. And he was right again. It looks gorgeous and he’s so annoying. We couldn’t have got a closer match if we’d taken the wall in to B&Q (or was it Homebase?) and asked them to mix the colour for us.
I am being taken out to lunch tomorrow or I would be painting the woodwork. It’s just as well because my hand is cramped from holding a paint roller all day.
I do apologise that this post isn’t particularly funny or interesting; could it be that I’ve lost my power? Perhaps my power is in the clenched fist that is my right hand and decorating is sucking the life out of it…? A nice house or an amused audience? I’ll have to waste tomorrow thinking about it. Threescore year and nine and 364 days to go….
The Writer’s Island Prompt this week is ‘inception’. We could have referenced the movie but I haven’t seen it and have no idea what it’s about, so I can’t. This is a poem of two halves. It was supposed to be a poem of the first half but as I was writing it I realised that it was out of date, so I added the years and the second half. I am not satisfied with it and I will come back to it at some point, but I’ve been working on it for three days and I’m not getting anywhere.
Quandary: From Inception To Resolution
our parents won’t let us marry.
Solution: a small acquisition.
Inspiration: no contraception.
Retribution: a wedding reception.
Seventeen – Mrs Teen – Mama Teen?
No way; no baby for me;
just lies and deception:
a fake miscarriage after the marriage.
And divorce after that.
I don’t miss marriage;
I have my cat.
our parents want us to marry.
I’m thirty: the clock is tutting.
But that’s so in the past;
we might not last.
If he gets ugly, old and fat
that will be that.
I’ll buy my folks a cat.