It is a well known fact in this family that the husband loathes painting. I'm not talking about the Constable/Monet kind of stuff, but the kind of painting which involves a roller and a lot of patience.
Several years ago, on a particularly miserable summer day (quelle surprise) the husband thought it would be a grand idea to move the barbecue closer to the house, where he could continue to cook in the dry. Well this was a great idea, until several beers later, we realised that whatever he was cooking had turned into kindling, and flames were licking up the white rendered walls. The barbecue was henceforth removed from this place of comfort, as was the husband, and both were banished to the far end of the patio to think about their actions.
Fast forward to a breezy, sunny Sunday and yours truly is on paintbrush duty. Now as much as the husband hates painting, he hates me painting even more. He got what the kids would call, a big eggy with me before I started, and handed me a stiff brush on the end of a long handle, and started preaching about 'preparation being the key for a successful paint job'.
Ah yes, preparation. There was no roller, no dustsheets, and until I started searching (a pink look is always superior to a blue one) no paintbrushes. Eventually I was tooled up, and set to brushing down the paintwork to rid of all the spiders and general filth. After the stiff brush fell off the handle for the fourth time, landing on my head each time, I launched it up the garden, and decided to just paint over everything that didn't move out of the way.
And that's just what I did. It's a knack you know, managing to get paint on your hands when you're wearing gloves, and I even managed to get some on my left buttock. This will teach me to wear jeans which are too big without a belt. There was a lot of hoisting up of drawers going on - not easy when you're on the top rung of the step ladder, leaning towards a high bit at a 45 degree angle. Needless to say, my hair also looked like it might need to be the next 'face' of Head and Shoulders, and my pink wellies are paint splattered too.
But the back of the house looked lovely, and the husband was very forthcoming in his praise for my efforts. As a reward, he took me to the pub, plied me with cloudy cider and roast pork, dragged me round the woods with the dogs, drove me home and then laid me out in a deckchair to sleep off the cider.
The husband keeps muttering about having to do another coat.
The husband needs to keep his mouth shut if he wants to carry on enjoying life....