DIY is fine – just don’t let it go to your head at all
Must have GSOH.
We are in the process of redecorating the bathroom and it is at the halfway stage. It’s been washed down and the woodwork has been sanded. Then I lost interest.
My man what does (everything I hate doing) has painted the ceiling but after the trouble with the filler, things have sort of come to a halt. I’d call in Rogue Traders but I’m the culprit.
I am, and always have been the sort of person who gets fired with enthusiasm and after an initial burst of energy subsides into inertia, crosswords and Diagnosis Murder.
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The bathroom needed a lick of paint because we had the old bathroom radiator replaced with a swish heated chrome towel rail and there was a hole in the wall where the old one came out. Fillers have come on a lot since I was a girl and, in the local DIY store, I found an expanding variety which looked equal to the job.
It was a bit awkward working behind the new towel rail but I was pretty pleased with myself. I washed my nozzle carefully and went downstairs to the rhythmic creaking of my knees.
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“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked my husband, who was in the garden grappling with the roots of a bamboo we are trying to tame. Now big enough to sustain the world’s panda population, it needs cutting back.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” he gasped and then looked at me oddly. “You’ve done something to your hair, haven’t you?”
I was flattered, dear reader. After all these years, and even in the throes of extreme physical exertion, he can still find time to compliment me.
“Nothing, just ran the brush through it as usual...” I gave him my most brilliant smile.
“No, I mean, you’ve done something to your hair?”
Ah. I must have brushed the nozzle of the tube against my hair and the foam had expanded. I put my hand to my head and could feel an outcrop of great rock-hard lumps. I tried to pull one out but it had attached itself to a thick lock of hair.
“It’s the expanding filler.”
“It won’t come out,” he said with certainty.
“Yes it will,” I said confidently.
No, it didn’t.
Three hours later, a dozen lumps of filler, each attached to clumps of my hair were lined up on the arm of the chair. At last I thought it was clear. I asked him to check. He inspected my head.
“Yes, that’s absolutely fine. You’ve just got a little bald patch and the tiny bits of filler that are left just look like nits.”
“Nits? They look like nits?”
“They hardly show.”
It was not the only sorry hair tale of the week. Dorinda Bowers sent me this one which starts with a phone call from her mum to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser : Hello Mrs. Biggs, what can I do for you?
My mum: I need an appointment – urgently.
Hairdresser: But we only did your hair yesterday.
My mum: Yes I know, but I need to come now.
Hairdresser: We are very busy, I don’t know if we can fit you in at such short notice.
My mum: I need to come now.
Hairdresser: Well, I will see if anyone is free, but why is it so urgent?
My mum: I’ve just sprayed my hair with furniture polish.
Hairdresser (trying not to laugh, and not succeeding): You’ve just sprayed your hair with furniture polish? (in very loud voice, much mirth to be heard in background) Well, you had better come now.
My mum puts phone down; retrieves can of hairspray from under the sink and replaces it with the can of polish; dons headscarf and dark glasses and heads out to have hair done...