I had intended to write the promised book related post but, in a fit of je ne sais quoi, the plan changed and I decided to tackle the outstanding job of decorating the smallest bedroom.
My parents would have nothing to do with anything involving a tin of paint and always called in the professionals. The mister, however, has tackled all sorts of DIY projects, big and small, since we acquired our first house way back in the day. But in recent years he's lost all enthusiasm for that kind of thing and arguably the required flexibility to scale ladders safely. (Me? Like a mountain goat).
To date, my biggest claim to decorating fame has been a 'refresh' of the little summerhouse at the bottom of the garden. I'm the only one who uses it and no-one can spot the drips and missed bits from other parts of the garden.
'Are you sure you know what you're doing?, queried Mr. Know-It-All as I lumbered up the stairs with the necessary equipment.
Oh, come on, how difficult can it be? The ceiling's already white and the walls not-quite-white, so the whole room will be done and dusted in a jiffy.
Or so I thought.
It didn't bode well when I had to call for assistance with getting the lid off the enormous (and heavy) tub of paint.
Then, when I poured paint into the tray I couldn't stop the flow, so, in the absence of anything more appropriate, had to use my hands to get the globby (it's a word, I've checked) mountain of overflow back into the tub.
I started with the ceiling but quickly gave up when I couldn't differentiate the freshly painted strip from the rest. I mean, who wants to waste their time and effort? And anyway, who looks at ceilings outside of the Sistine Chapel?
Also, I sincerely hope that whoever came up with the idea of painting with a roller didn't receive a Nobel prize or design award. Honestly, those things just spray paint everywhere. E.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e.
Of course, someone couldn't resist poking his nose in at regular intervals.
'You're supposed to start with the corners'.
Turns out I'm not good with corners.
And I'm no better with the bits in between the corners.
Maybe patchy will become a decorating trend.
Then there's painting behind the radiator. I mean, how?
Ditto the venetian blind. Should I take it down? Again, how?**
I've lost count of the number of times I've stood in the loaded paint tray. Buzz Cat decided to do that 'Look at me, I'm outside the bedroom window, balancing precariously on a narrow ledge, oops, nearly fell off there' and I inadvertently stepped off the ladder when Nathan, our usually quiet and reserved window cleaner, announced his unexpected presence (surely he does his round on a Thursday?) by sticking his head in the room and calling out 'Hiya'.
The clock holding down the dust sheet (one of the Boy's duvet covers as I couldn't locate the dust sheets) fell off the top of the wardrobe and badly bruised my foot. Downward dog is going to be painful.
My hair, face, hands and forearms are pebble-dashed.
My watch strap is ruined and my rings and bangles require a good sandblasting.
The jeans and shirt I've been wearing are beyond recognition and there's paint inside my bra.
The laminate flooring looks like Jackson Pollock was unleashed on it. When he was in his Paw Prints phase. Yep, whilst I was downstairs enjoying a much needed tea break, Bea Cat decided to check on progress, leaving a white matt trail across the bedroom and onto the carpeted landing. Actually, the little paw prints look quite artistic amongst all the other blobs and drips and smears and sprays.
'You'll never remove all that paint from the floor', advised Job's Comforter.*
'Not to mention the cat's paws', I thought.
It's probably safe to say interior decorating really isn't my forte.
I'm beginning to wonder if anything is.
Edited to add:
*Turns out The Expert knows diddly-squat about laminate flooring and paint splashes as I've easily (well, fairly easily) removed most of them with a packet of Sainsbury's antibacterial wipes (supersize).
**Problem solved with the Boy's intervention.