Colouring in - an epic tale in 3½ parts

1. Introducton

Painting is my 23^rd love. For brief period after I gave up competitive long-distance-spitting it was my 22^nd. Then blogging happened and painting fell back to 23^rd again. Still, 23^rd is not bad when you consider my 24^th love is eating Irish stew and 25^th making it.

Now before you go getting all excited, expecting talk of exhibitions and such, I mean house painting. Not the other kind - landscapes, portraits and so on - I know nothing about that.

But I know a lot about painting houses. When I was only a nipper, the great Barty Conlon was a world famous house painter in our village. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. Well, almost everything - I had to go home early that day as my dinner was ready.

Over the years I’ve worked with a lot of painters (none as world famous as Barty, but some were classified as fairly world famous) and worked at it on my own bat too. (Regular readers have probably realised by now that I’ve done more moonlighting than Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd).

Anyway, I’ve learned all the knacks and tricks of the trade. I know how to suck air through my teeth and shake my head when pricing jobs; I know to get a look at the marque of the car, the size of the garden and the quality of the furniture before setting the price; I know to look impressed and tell auld wans they’ve picked great colours; without fail, I can locate the tea and biscuits in any kitchen - blindfolded.

I’m good at it too. No spills, drips or splashes with this lad. Masking tape? For wimps! Drop cloths? They just trip you up! A good painter doesn’t need them. All a good painter needs is a damp rag, just on the off chance a herd of wildebeest come stampeding through the room and one leaves a bum print on a skirting board.

And straight lines. The folks over at the local accident and emergency bring their electrocardiographs (and a corpse) over to Sneezy Manor to have them calibrated.

It’s all down to skill, know-how, a steady hand, the right tools, patience and time. Time is most important. A rushed paint job is like rushed sex - lads, I’m telling you, you may walk away happy that time, but don’t expect to be called again.

After the chaos of last week, I finally found some time to do some painting. Now therein lay the problem - some. Not enough, just some time. Big mistake.

2. Tooling up

I checked my supplies and realised I’d need a few things. Not a lot though, because I either make tools or reuse unwanted items. Rather than haul a heavy paint can up a ladder I cut the top off an empty plastic milk container (leaving the hand-grip intact). A long flat strip of wood with a small sponge glued on the end is great for getting down behind radiators.

But I would need some new brushes and a few gloss sleeves for my mini-roller would save me a lot of time. Now, I don’t like the idea of stuff, like gloss sleeves, that you can’t easily clean and reuse, but I thought, hey, it’ll save time and I can always chuck them over the fence to Nasty Neighbours’ kids - the small one will eat anything and the older ones love the excitement when the ambulance comes.

Stuck for time, I went to the nearest hardware, B&Q. A trip there is always good for a laugh anyway. You see DIY-dude paying big bucks for a professional painter’s drop-sheet when he probably has a stack of unused and unwanted sheets at home. And there’s always one who will buy the professional painter’s mini-tub which is really an empty ice cream pail. And the one who only needs a sleeve but walks out with a professional painter’s rolling kit (with roller, tray, fine and coarse sleeves and tool he doesn’t know the purpose of). If it says professional on the label it has to be what you need doesn’t it?

I got the gloss sleeves. And seen some brushes that claimed to be loss-free. Doubtful as I was, I’d give them a go and see what they were like.

An old painter’s trick is to wrap the roller sleeve tightly in a plastic bag if it will be needed again within a short space of time. It saves a heck of a lot of washing. But I didn’t have any bags. Irish houses used be full of them before the introduction of the bag-tax. I didn’t have any or anything like them. I thought, well for the sake of 22c I’d buy one - think of the time I’d save.

Can I have a bag, please? The shop assistant looked at me quizzically. A what? A bag - a plastic bag. But you aren’t buying anything. I’m buying a plastic bag. Actually, give me two. But you’ve nothing to put in them. Okay then, give me two of boxes of matches and I’d a like a bag for each. No problem, sir. Here you go.

3. Painting

My system is to paint by numbers. 1. Do that bit. 2. Do that bit. 3. Do that bit. Great system. Never fails.

This time, 1. was to be the bathroom walls. That’s where the trouble started in earnest. The last “Mrs.” Sneeze (long gone - bad hair - you know yourself) had a thing about fixtures. More precisely, a thing about fixed-fixtures. There were more fixtures bolted, screwed or glued to those walls than in the premiership on a Saturday afternoon.

I figured taking them down would mean repairs- it’d take a lorry-load of fillers and a lot of time, neither of which I had much. I’d just cut in around them. I had all the gear I’d need, even some tiny artist’s brushes for the trickier nooks and crannies. (Yeah, I’m a perfectionist).

That reminded me of a blogging artist, who also paints houses, once saying he likes to do rooms at night while the owners sleep - just to see the look on their faces the next morning when they see the transformation. That’s what I’d do. I’d paint at night. Okay, I’d be painting my own rooms for myself so I wouldn’t be surprised, but I could pretend, just for fun. Plus I’d be free during the day for any urgent work that came in.

A few hours sleep and I got stuck in at 1 in the morning. By 2, I’d lost the rag - the damp one. I simply can’t paint without the comfort-blanket of a damp rag to hand. I didn’t need it, but I needed it to be there.

I began to regret not removing all the junk from the walls. There were more corners than Monte Carlo. And why were there two toilet roll holders? One butt at a time. Two hands, but one butt. More disturbing was that I hadn’t noticed before.

The artificial light began to hurt my eyes. Cutting a straight line at the ceiling was next to impossible. For a while I thought I’d have to leave sections until daylight.

And the loss-free brushes! Brilliant yokes altogether. Not a single hair shed. The problem was, not a single drop of paint applied either - the synthetic fibres just wouldn’t hold it. I even tried some sticky varnish as an experiment but no joy. They should make rain coats or bullet-proof vests with this stuff not brushes.

I persevered and got what I had intended done by dawn. I stepped outside and then back in and feigned surprise. The dog gave me his fekin eejit look and walked off. I had to agree with him.

A few spots here and there might need some attention, but it still wasn’t bright enough to be sure and overall it was a good night’s work. Time for a coffee and a sit down.

3½. The result

In the full light of day I surveyed the scene again. It was much, much better than I thought. My eyes had been playing tricks under the lights and the ceiling line was, in fact, perfect. The patches I thought would need touching up had merely been shadows. It was a masterpiece.

But never again will I paint at night or when stuck for time - I’d used the colour I’d bought for the main bedroom not the bathroom!