Sweet painted lady...

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It's been 'paintbrushes at dawn' over the last forty eight hours, as the Teacher (the husband) and the Boy (son number two) battle it out as to who is best at decorating.  Of course, neither of them can hold a candle to The Master (yours truly) which became apparent yesterday morning.  


The husband was hacked off because...well, where there is a paintbrush present, he will always be hacked off. Decorating is filed away with clothes shopping, pasta, The Walker Brothers and nail files, so he was just fed up of the threat of another day up the ladder.  Son number two was nursing a hangover of epic proportions which not even one of my famous bacon sandwiches could chase off, and had enough enthusiasm for painting to fill a thimble, so between them, it became apparent that no painting would be done on a Sunday.


Offering my services to do a bit (I love painting) the husband came up with the following reasons as to why I couldn't:


'You'll get in my way'.  

'No I won't, I'll go around the back while you do the front'.


'I'll have to think about what you're doing which will slow me down'.

'No you won't - I'll have my own tin of paint and brush'


'I'm sure you have more than enough other jobs to do'.

'No, I haven't.  I did them all when you were having a lay in'.  (Small snide remark)


'You don't really want to paint'.

'YES I DO!  I LOVE PAINTING!'


So the husband had trotted off up to his workshop to repair a tyre puncture, and son number two had gone back to bed, asking me to keep my nagging down to a dull roar.  Seizing my moment (and a small tin of gloss) I proceeded to paint the porch ceiling, making a perfectly good job of it.  By the time he got back, I'd finished painting, tidied up and cleaned my brushes and put them away.  Other than a beautifully shiny ceiling, there was nothing to say that I'd been anywhere near a stepladder.



I thought I'd got away with it.



'Why have you got white paint on your glasses?' he asked, his eyes narrowing menacingly.


Damn...I was rumbled...



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