The Art Of Painting

Once I got the stuff down from the loft I had to start.  I like painting, once I get going.  To get going, however, involves a lot of preparation.  The Hub insists that if his wife is going to do the job, she’s going to do it properly.  He’s good like that.  He always makes sure I have good equipment, and even bought me a special paint roller cleaning thingy that is my personal Kryptonite because I am feeble in the face of it but it really does clear the roller of all excess paint.  He’s so thoughtful.  I don’t know what I’d do without him.  Hire a decorator, maybe?

 

 

The operation went like this:

• Preparation: 3.5 hours
• Painting: 2 hours
• Clean Up: 3.5 hours

The first 3.5 hours does involve a lot of, ‘Spud, will you pleeeeease get off the PS3 and into the loft for my paint gear?’ and the second 3.5 hours included a 2-hour bath and a one-hour drying-off period, and the nine hours were spread over a month, but you can still see I was busy the whole day, can’t you?

As requested, here is a photo of the newly painted ceiling:

Isn’t it lovely?  A thing of beauty is a joy forever; in this case, that’s probably true: I’m not painting it again; my backthighsshoulderslegsarmswristshandshead is aching.  One coat will do.  Which reminds me: I learned a few things yesterday.

• The ratio of paint to hair is roughly equivalent to the ratio of paint to brush, because
• What goes up tends to come down again
• Ladders are evil
• Always use the ladder without the missing foot
• And the ladder that lets you reach the far corner
• If you  must paint in your pyjamas (and I must; I don’t know why), don’t use your favourites unless you don’t intend wearing them again
• You can remove the light bulbs or see what you’re doing; you can’t do both
• Fortunately, emulsion can be wiped off wallpaper
• Fortunately, wet emulsion can be wiped off wallpaper
• Don’t put off wiping now instead of leaving it for later
• Unfortunately, dry emulsion cannot be wiped off wallpaper

It was hard work but there is the reward of a job well done, which was the satisfaction of a job done.  The whole of my downstairs has been decorated in the last twelve months.  Such a good feeling.  Apart from one piece of skirting board.  I also have to paint the skirting board up the stairs and the bannister on the stair-side.  That’s a job for next week.  First, I have to buy some new pyjamas.

So This Is What Ungrateful Feels Like

Image by id-iom via Flickr

 

I’m getting them for nothing; I shouldn’t complain, but I am sick to death of the kitchen and bathroom refurbishment.  The work has been going on since September 23^rd.  It should have been September 22^nd but they were running a little behind. 

That was the first clue that I should have stuck with my forty-year old cabinets.  Better the cupboard you know.

Since that date, workmen have been in and out of my house, leaving the door open for opportunist thieves and letting the cold in; drinking my tea; not cleaning up after themselves.  I’ve had kitchen necessaries in my lounge and kitchen extras in every bedroom and a stonking great fridge freezer blocking my front door for three weeks.

Men come, look around, go away again.  Other men give me dates and no-one shows up.  Anonymous vans deliver wallpaper and plumbing supplies that stand around for days, gathering dust and my impotent rage.  The rubbish that the men do clear up stands uncollected outside my house, a prey to foxes, because half-eaten sandwiches go in the bags as well.  I’ve got nothing against foxes except that, like council workmen, they don’t clear up after themselves.

We were promised that this week the tiling and decorating would be done, and the shower fitted.  Monday, the tilers came in, drew in a long breath and said they couldn’t tile because there was a tiny hole that I couldn’t see that needed plastering; then went away again.  The plasterer came, filled the hole, and went away again.  The tilers tiled. 

Tuesday, the decorators came, stripped the paper, drew in a long breath and went away again because there were holes underneath that the plasterer etc., etc.  The plasterer came in the afternoon and plastered.  This was his third time here as he had plastered prior to the cabinet fitting.  As we are as good as related by now, I joined him via my leftover birthday wine.  I don’t know why, but suddenly it was all so much easier.

The decorators came back yesterday morning and papered, then went away again because – draw a long breath – it wasn’t their job to paint. 

This morning, Paul the person in charge knocked to tell me that I was down to have my floors done today.  This is the same Paul who told me on Monday that my floors would not be done until the decorating was finished.  Phrases using words like ‘elbows’, and vulgar alternatives to the human posterior spring to mind.

While all this is going on, I have been shuttling kitchen necessaries such as kettles and microwaves from kitchen to lounge to kitchen again.

On top of all that, we are going camping on Sunday.  Twelve years without a family holiday and we opt for one that has us living with a kitchen-come-lounge for a week.  Somebody, please – pass me the wine.  I need to get plastered.

*

The prompt for Carry on Tuesday was to use the words, ‘Close your eyes, have no fear’ from John Lennon’s song, Beautiful Boy.  I only have one thing on my mind, so here it is:

A Bit Of A Carry On

Close your eyes; have no fear:
the end’s almost here.
Fitting & tiling & joinery’s done;
wallpaper is up; painting’s to come.
Add a new shower and two shiny floors:
A beautiful kitchen (and bathroom) is yours.

*

Coincidentally, I wrote this one yesterday:

Lines On A Refurbishment 

At present, my writing life’s quite unexciting.
I shouldn’t be bitching, I have a new kitchen.

I just can’t write in a mess, I guess.