The pain of painting again.

10 Nov

One of Namuth's many photos of Jackson Pollock...

Image via Wikipedia


I spilt about 20 litres of house paint. It was not my fault. the universe conspired against me. I spent my Saturday water blasting the stairs. The One hundred and thirty five steps  took me from 10.30 in the morning till I crept up, (aching back) at 6 that night. (I had ambled off mid afternoon to vote of course.) It is quite a zen experience to water blast methodically…slowly slowly, watching moss peel off under the pressure from the water. The stairs are so clean they have changed colour. The following day I spent a good deal of time repainting the white stripes on the edge of the stairs. This is where the paint wasting occurred. Deane had gone out with a few kids to a hardware shop. I looked around in his small tidy basement, and spotted the 20 litre bucket of white paint under another 20litre bucket. I removed the top bucket with effort, and voila! – the paint from the top bucket poured out all over Deane’s clean basement floor. The bottom of the bucket just ‘fell’ out. Old paint -old bucket. I frantically scanned around for an empty..well..whatever there was but all I could see was a smaller blue bucket with a plastic plate for a lid. I grabbed it, paint spewing forth around me, and tried to pry the plate/lid off. The lid came off and its contents, which happened to be sawdust-dust. Yes; actual dust from the sawdust. So it was lovely and fine and stuck to the spilt paint like well…dust does. I saved as much dust as I could and replaced lid/plate, returned dust bucket and fled out the door yelling at the twelve year old to find me a bucket in the laundry. I couldn’t go inside as I had paint on my shoes and up my legs. Think Jackson Pollock. She could not find the bucket of course, so I took my shoes off, ran into Harry’ s bedroom, emptied his revolting rubbish bin onto his floor and fled. Back in the filthy shed I poured the remaining paint in the rubbish bin and took the dripping buckets outside onto the grass to clag over a bit. In the process about ten litres of paint spilt from a tipped over bucket onto the grass. By the time I had prepared myself to actually use the paint on the stairs, there were splodges of it up and down the path, the shed path, the shed of course, (all though  you couldn’t really see that as it was completely smothered in sawdust-dust…yay), and of course me. Deane returned and I apologetically told him-before he found out by standing in it. He was very good about the shed, the path, the grass etc. It was just a bad day.

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