No quote…as yet…from The Child Catcher but this weekend another task found itself splashed, quite dramatically, onto his list.
Stood at the top of the stairs with arms full of laundry, trunks and towel in preparation for Sunday morning ‘swishing’ with O and a coldly forgotten cup of coffee, I looked down to find my pathway obstacled by an extension lead, its cord lying menacingly unraveled in wait of laundry-carrying victims, a pair (or two) of shoes, a light bulb in a paint pot (don’t ask as I don’t know), a pair of mini sized gardening gloves and O’s nursery bag. The vignette had been transferred by C to its unsuitable position from where it had previously lain innocently, albeit unattractively, in the hallway so that he could make (an exciting) start on the grouting and whilst I’d like to blame someone other than myself for this hazardous choice of storage solution (and C will do quite nicely) its not entirely fair. As self-appointed project managers S and I should really be clearing the relevant area in preparation for work to start. Failing that, we should perhaps have considered adopting the Health and Safety Good Practice of which we are both professionally versed and risk assessed for the foreseeable problems the use of Builders Initiative often manifests (for other examples of my intolerance of the latter see Wk 8 Day Four). S and I, however have grown begrudgingly and often cursingly acclimatised to the sight of foreign objects impinging the fluid traversing of our home. The blame is our own.
I remember I had a moment to clock the hazardous pathway before me but there was time for little else before the sight of it tripped me even before the objects themselves could. Whilst I managed, somehow, to keep hold of both me and the washing, S, O and I watched aghast as my coffee cup bounced down the staircase, one step at a time, splattering coffee across each of the four freshly painted walls and ceiling before rolling to a standstill, unbroken. As we have discovered umpteen times during painting, our walls are rather partial to liquid and coffee, it would appear, is a favourite with each drop being greedily guzzled before any attempt at cleaning could do anything to save us from the depressing inevitability of a third coat.
S looked at my darkening face.
“Its ok pet. Another coat will sort it out”
“When?” I cried sorrowfully, “when have we got the time?”
Ive spoken often of S’s laborious commute and late return home after his long working day. Coupled with that are my belated attempts at getting a new business up and running by September ….the planning of which, in order to allow me two clean weeks for our holiday, I’m now desperately cramming into evenings and nap times.
I stared forlornly at our newly graffitied walls.
“Come on pet. We’ll work it out” and with that S ushered me out of the door, late as we were, for swishing.
Despite being pretty sick of white paint I still feel cheered when contemplating colour and so it was with some excitement that I retrieved from the loft on Saturday night my box of tester pots in the hope that I might find within it The Perfect Snug Shade. As my Nan looked on I began cutting large squares of lining paper and wiping away the remnants of the bathroom wall encrusting each pot so labels were once again visible.
“What are you doing?” my Nan asked, sipping at a glass of red.
“I’m trying to find a colour for the snug” I explained “and wondered if I might have something here already…Gregory’s Den. Moonstone..hmmmm. London Sky…loved that one. Trilby…too dark. Secret Room …too green”
“Let me have a look at the room again,” she said as she headed to the darkened doorway to peer inside the (depressingly considering S’s recent attempt at its clearance) re-cluttered room. Returning to the table she looked in horror at my sample sheet.
“No.” She said decisively, shaking her head. “No. Grey is too cold.”
Tacking the sheet to the wall we considered. She was right. Too cold.
I selected a second pot.
“The green I originally painted the lounge….” I explained as I filled the next square of paper with colour.
“Maybe. I like green” she nodded thoughtfully. We stuck it up.
I painted a third sheet. Then a fourth. And a fifth. Each time my Nan delivered her damning verdict. No. No and No.
“This is fun.” she said.
I topped up our wine and sighed.
“This room is so hard! Look at that green….it now looks blue….” I said as the light..or rather lack of…transformed each colour before our eyes to an unrecognisable hue.
“How about this?” Nan said eventually, flipping open the Little Greene Paint Company chart. “Slaked Lime? A little bit green…a little bit beige?”
I peered across the table, expectations low, to discover that there are times when you really do need 80 years of experience. The paint sample is ordered and its on its way…
Whilst we said goodbye on Saturday to my Nan (thankfully before the stair debacle) we welcomed, this weekend, some new additions to our household…
1) A row of cast iron stag offspring in the bathroom (much procrastinating over hooks has been done with ceramic rhinos eventually rejected in favour of these now fondly familiar beasts)
2) A bathroom shelf at last cut (four burnt out discs later) from our leftover patio sandstone (with rough edges at the moment so despite protestations from my husband and assuming the price isn’t prohibitive I may look into having them rounded off by a stone worktop supplier)
3) And the last of the tiles laid in the hallway …tantalisingly close to being finished with only some grouting left to do.
Reclaimed bench now sought, to be positioned under the watchful eyes of our adult stags….upon which to store bags with shoes below. And keep, finally, those stairs clear……