I could never quite fathom why someone would want to paint houses for a living.
I'd had a few attempts, under duress, when the lounge was getting a makeover. We had no spare cash to pay a professional so, like many DIYers, we attacked the beast ourselves. I spent many hours that very hot summer balancing 12 feet high up on the scaffolding, scrubbing the ceiling of fly poo.
I'm not sure how I landed that number, or several other jobs that preceded the actual lifting of a paintbrush. When I did finally get around to applying the paint, my lack of any skill became quickly apparent and I did not appreciate every flaw being indiscreetly pointed out.
Fast-forward a few decades and the owners of a bach we have been lucky enough to stay in mentioned the place needed the once-over. Naturally, I volunteered my husband for the job, his prowess in the painting field making him an obvious choice. He, in turn, was hoping a couple of sons might also put their hands up to help out.
But by the time the job was all go, the boys had found themselves in permanent employment and I was being asked to take time off work. What good timing, I thought. I could go along, pull up a deckchair and laze about at the beach, swimming and reading, while good old Eddie did all the work. So I spent my birthday book vouchers, packed a few essentials, shoved it all in the van along with the painting paraphernalia, and off we went.
