Sometimes I wish I was like Mr Bean.
Ok, may sometimes I wish I was more like Mr Bean.
Sometimes I wish I could just put a stick of dynamite in a can of paint, light the fuse and let explosive forces decorate for me. I mean, I know it doesn’t work. Not just because it’s obvious but because it was tested on Mythbusters. At best you end up with a kind of Jackson Pollock-esque room. You certainly don’t end up with everything painted but the void left by a man who has snuck in to retrieve a hat.
We’re decorating the back bedroom at the moment, to turn it into a guest bedroom for, among others, my mother. Mum is spending Christmas here so we thought it would probably be the done thing to turn the man cave/spare room/clutter-filled hell-hole/ironing room/Peppa’s bedroom into a bedroom. I argued against decorating it, saying that for the most part anyone in that room would have their eyes closed and it would also be night, so a lot of the effort we’re putting into decorating is wasted, but that was over-ruled by Carole. And so we’re decorating.
It’s going to be finished by Christmas. It doesn’t feel like it at the moment as we’re coating woodwork in shiny, shiny paint. But it will be finished by Christmas. It has to be. Partly because my mum will be sleeping in there and partly for our sanity. Somewhere there’s a hell that’s just constantly entering a room that needs decorating, spending a day doing stuff and leaving only to return the next day and not really being able to explain what you actually did on the previous day. Some sort of mania is setting in. It’s a wonder we’re not both muttering “I hate that room!” in our sleep. Maybe that is still to come.
Today I went in there and there was a massive spider. And I mean massive. I could have covered the spider in paint and made it run across the skirting boards and it would have been on a par with Mr Bean’s dynamite. It was huge. And it just sat on the window frame and judged me with its eight eyes for not being able to paint things better or transfer the paint from the can via the brush without getting it all over my t-shirt.
(As a side note, it’s Wednesday. Since Saturday the longest I have worn a t-shirt without spilling something on to it is about 1 hour.)
I evicted it, in the end, into the great outdoors. Where it was probably eaten by one of the hundred-thousand birds that were in the garden at the time But had I not done that, I had visions of me happily painting something and turning round to find the spider stuck into the surface of the freshly painted thing.
Carole can forgive the odd lump or bump, but I think she’d draw the line at a glossed arachnid.