paintwork

Gripping the paintbrush with my teeth, lying flat on my belly on the lino, I maneuver myself with both hands, angling my body to fit into the small space down the side of the loo. Once in position, I remove the paintbrush from my mouth. Stretching as far as I can and twisting very slightly to the left, I manage to coat the area that evaded other decorators before me.

I unravel myself from the around the toilet and scramble over to sit, fully clothed in the (empty) bath; prime viewing position for that particular spot.

Success.

Never again will I be blighted whilst bathing by the unsightly view of a neglected skirting board.

Feeling accomplished in the ways of one coat gloss. I move on to the door.

Lovingly, painstakingly I apply the paint. I am careful to distribute it evenly, avoiding the reservoirs that form where the brush transfers paint from the tin, catching drips, guiding regimented brush stroke rivers that will merge into a smooth surface once the paint relaxes and dries.

Satisfied with my evening’s efforts, the light now fading, I clear up and wash my hands. I open the window, ever so slightly, so that the fresh air can circulate and dry out the paint a little quicker. I set the door to a safe position so that my near perfect surface won’t be knocked or brushed up against or tampered with in any way. And as I settle into half an hour of well earned relaxation, a little black fly makes its way through the window and settles too....permanently...into the slightly tacky, fresh new paintwork.