As usual, I should have got a man in. I am painting all the doors in my home. It’s not so much a competence thing as a time thing. Never realised there were so many doors. I only meant to paint one or two, but liked the results so much, I thought I’d do the rest.
Indeed, I had to really, or the hoose would have had doors of many, or at least two, colours. And I’m making a decent job of it. Indeed, as the memory of my late Dad fades (he regarded me as hopeless and mocked the very idea of my doing DIY), I am gaining in confidence at practical tasks, particularly after a proper tradesman praised my sanded floors and stairs the other day.
“I’ve seen worse jobs done by professionals,” he said. Sort of a compliment. But the doors, the doors: I’m painting them brilliant white, a colour I have always abhorred in decor. To me, it is beyond the pale.
Everywhere you go: white, white white. It’s as if the gods of property wanted to desensitise us or make us fade clean away from looking at boring interiors. But there’s no doubt that white brightens up a place.
I only really regretted it with a row of three doors that were previously a sort of magnolia – like most men, I am told I have no idea about colour – that matched the surrounding walls. Basically, I’m a beige sort of guy and preferred the colour to the white. But visitors, asked to state their preference without fear or favour, plumped universally for the white.
I suppose it must be the growing Scandinavian influence on our lives. Personally, I prefer the colour of civil service departments of the 1950s – racing green and magnolia or beige or even brown.
Each to their own. One thing I must own up to is the horrible mistake of painting a door after I had accidentally inhaled a vat of sherry. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but much of the next day was spent getting paint off the floor, stairs and, most peculiarly, the grill of the cooker. Checking the freezer, it transpired that I must have eaten a gross of fish fingers. Still, at least I cooked them this time.
All this effort, of course, is for someone else’s benefit. I’m only sprucing the place up because I’m having to sell it. I’d hoped to have it on the market by now, but I’m dreading the whole business and there are still umpteen things to do, not least finding somewhere else to live.
Of all the outstanding problems, though, the garden is proving the most recalcitrant. Living in the shadow of the suburban hill, we have terrible problems with moss, which I have eradicated with magical powders, but at the cost of leaving big black patches on the little lawns.
The patches are supposed to be transitory, and I’ve put down loads of grass seed, but nothing is happening. Maybe it’s too early in the year.
So, I’m left with black holes in the garden and white doors in the hoose. But at least the latter are shiny and bright. Now all I have to do is start glossing over all the house’s other faults in the sales schedule.