It will be pink dreams from now on af­ter this house paint­ing makeover

The Argus - - LIFESTYLE -

WE’VE had The Painters in. I hate hav­ing the painters in. I can’t stand the mess and fol­low­ing on so soon af­ter The Win­dow Men, it was just too much for me. Hence the hastily ar­ranged hol­i­day to keep us out of the house while they were in. The idea be­ing by the time we got back the house would be painted.

Of course it didn’t work out like that. The painter de­cided to take a bit of a hol­i­day him­self while we were ab­sent and so we re­turned to a house full of paint pots, dust sheets and mouldy tea cups. ‘How much more do you have to do?’ I asked him the morn­ing af­ter our re­turn.

I ad­mit I was a bit abra­sive. I’m not good in the morn­ings and he has a habit of ar­riv­ing at the un­godly hour of 8 a.m., look­ing all chirpy and full of the joys of spring. ‘Ah should be fin­ished in a few more days,’ he replied vaguely, slurp­ing his cof­fee and grin­ning good na­turedly.

As a re­sult, three days later I still haven’t un­packed from the hol­i­days be­cause I can’t get into the bloody be­d­rooms to put stuff away. There are suit­cases lit­ter­ing the hall­way AS well as paint pots, lad­ders and dust cloths AND we’re all run­ning out of un­der­wear.

Then he runs out of paint. I’m run­ning out of pa­tience but I try to be po­lite as he sends me off to get 5 litres of soft sheen in nat­u­ral cot­ton. Trou­ble is, by the time I got to the paint shop I had for­got­ten what he told me to get and buy Orig­i­nal Cream in­stead of Nat­u­ral Cot­ton.

‘Ah it’ll be grand,’ I tell him. ‘Sure they’re prac­ti­cally the same.’ He re­fuses to fin­ish off the liv­ing room un­til I get the right paint but says he’ll make a start on our bed­room in­stead. I re­turn to the paint shop with a writ­ten note this time and get the bloody Nat­u­ral Cot­ton.

When I get back I find him in the bed­room which has been trans­formed into a gi­ant candy floss type boudoir. ‘What the feck?!’ I ask look­ing at the pink walls in shock. ‘That’s the paint you chose,’ he says cheer­ily. ‘Bal­let Slipper.’

‘Oh good Je­sus. I didn’t think it was go­ing to be THAT pink! It’ll be like sleep­ing in­side a marsh­mal­low.’ He laugh­ingly agrees. ‘Have you told Him­self ?’

I hadn’t told Him­self. Him­self, like most men, hates pink. I know he will blow a gas­ket when he sees it. ‘Will you tell him it’s not pink – it’s white with a touch of pink?’I plead, star­ing at the Bar­bie pink walls. ‘I’ll give it a go,’ says the painter, ‘al­though I’m not sure it will work.’

It didn’t. Him­self nearly had a conniption when he saw it, threat­ened not to pay the painter un­til I ad­mit­ted it was my fault and he is now say­ing the colour is mak­ing him have night­mares.

If he doesn’t get over it soon we may have to do sep­a­rate be­d­rooms. This makes me a bit sad. But at least I won’t have to put up with his snor­ing.

There’s al­ways a sil­ver lin­ing!


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