Monday, April 09, 2007
Happy Easter
We have a Plan for the Easter Weekend. Four days of wire brushes, primer, gloss paint and white spirit. We intend to spruce up The Outside.
Friday morning: the sun shines as I enthusiastically undercoat the front gate, expecting it to be only a matter of moments before I am fighting off hordes of urchins all desperate to have a go. The eager urchins don't appear, but a cheeky scamp in a tracksuit tells me: "You've missed a bit there love". I smile. At this point I am still optimistic.
Saturday afternoon: I've already done two coats of gloss round the front. Now, instead of sitting in a pub in Manchester offering up another reason why the Decemberists are ace, I am standing in the wind tunnel of eternal shade by the side gate, fingers freezing, shoulders hunched. I am beginning to lose enthusiasm. However the results are good (and the gate looks OK from a distance).
Sunday: The novelty has clearly worn off. We are both tired and quite grumpy ('quite grumpy' may be an understatement). I notice that, although we have become less conscientious about the cleaning of the brushes the smell of white spirit is inescapable. My head aches. It dawns on me that the paint I'm now scraping from the shed door is from the Olden Days. Little lead loaded flakes settle in my hair, nose and mouth.
Monday: We have run out of steam. I don't care about runs and brush marks. I have no pride in my work. The motto is "It'll do". At 12:35 it begins to rain. We can stop and eat chocolate. There is a god!
Alternatively. Oh. No. There isn't.
Best music for delicately applying the top coat with precision and the sun on your back while thinking about Claire Fisher: Transatlanticism - Death Cab For Cutie
Best music for slapping it on thick, not worrying about drips, just getting it done before it rains: Scumbody Told Me - Arctic Monkeys v Killers
Friday morning: the sun shines as I enthusiastically undercoat the front gate, expecting it to be only a matter of moments before I am fighting off hordes of urchins all desperate to have a go. The eager urchins don't appear, but a cheeky scamp in a tracksuit tells me: "You've missed a bit there love". I smile. At this point I am still optimistic.
Saturday afternoon: I've already done two coats of gloss round the front. Now, instead of sitting in a pub in Manchester offering up another reason why the Decemberists are ace, I am standing in the wind tunnel of eternal shade by the side gate, fingers freezing, shoulders hunched. I am beginning to lose enthusiasm. However the results are good (and the gate looks OK from a distance).
Sunday: The novelty has clearly worn off. We are both tired and quite grumpy ('quite grumpy' may be an understatement). I notice that, although we have become less conscientious about the cleaning of the brushes the smell of white spirit is inescapable. My head aches. It dawns on me that the paint I'm now scraping from the shed door is from the Olden Days. Little lead loaded flakes settle in my hair, nose and mouth.
Monday: We have run out of steam. I don't care about runs and brush marks. I have no pride in my work. The motto is "It'll do". At 12:35 it begins to rain. We can stop and eat chocolate. There is a god!
Alternatively. Oh. No. There isn't.
Best music for delicately applying the top coat with precision and the sun on your back while thinking about Claire Fisher: Transatlanticism - Death Cab For Cutie
Best music for slapping it on thick, not worrying about drips, just getting it done before it rains: Scumbody Told Me - Arctic Monkeys v Killers
Labels: real life
