It will be pink dreams from now on after this house painting makeover
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!
HIMSELF NEARLY HAD A CONNIPTION WHEN HE SAWIT AND HE’S NOW SAYING THE COLOUR IS MAKING HIM HAVE NIGHTMARES