Sunday, 23 April 2017

Sweet painted lady...

It is a well known fact in this family that the husband loathes painting.  I'm not talking about the Constable/Monet kind of stuff, but the kind of painting which involves a roller and a lot of patience. 

Several years ago, on a particularly miserable summer day (quelle surprise) the husband thought it would be a grand idea to move the barbecue closer to the house, where he could continue to cook in the dry.  Well this was a great idea, until several beers later, we realised that whatever he was cooking had turned into kindling, and flames were licking up the white rendered walls.  The barbecue was henceforth removed from this place of comfort, as was the husband, and both were banished to the far end of the patio to think about their actions.

Fast forward to a breezy, sunny Sunday and yours truly is on paintbrush duty.  Now as much as the husband hates painting, he hates me painting even more.  He got what the kids would call, a big eggy with me before I started, and handed me a stiff brush on the end of a long handle, and started preaching about 'preparation being the key for a successful paint job'.  

Ah yes, preparation.  There was no roller, no dustsheets, and until I started searching (a pink look is always superior to a blue one) no paintbrushes. Eventually I was tooled up, and set to brushing down the paintwork to rid of all the spiders and general filth.  After the stiff brush fell off the handle for the fourth time, landing on my head each time, I launched it up the garden, and decided to just paint over everything that didn't move out of the way. 

And that's just what I did.  It's a knack you know, managing to get paint on your hands when you're wearing gloves, and I even managed to get some on my left buttock.  This will teach me to wear jeans which are too big without a belt.  There was a lot of hoisting up of drawers going on - not easy when you're on the top rung of the step ladder, leaning towards a high bit at a 45 degree angle.  Needless to say, my hair also looked like it might need to be the next 'face' of Head and Shoulders, and my pink wellies are paint splattered too.

But the back of the house looked lovely, and the husband was very forthcoming in his praise for my efforts.  As a reward, he took me to the pub, plied me with cloudy cider and roast pork, dragged me round the woods with the dogs, drove me home and then laid me out in a deckchair to sleep off the cider.

The husband keeps muttering about having to do another coat.

The husband needs to keep his mouth shut if he wants to carry on enjoying life....


Nice legs, shame about the face...

The husband officially has his shorts on now.  I have tried to warn him of the coming temperature plummet which is forecast for next week, but he poo-poos my attempts at weather forecasting, choosing instead to throw caution to the wind and get his knees out.

As the weather was so lovely yesterday afternoon, we sat on the deckchairs in the sunshine, nursing a couple of beers.  I had been on a long walk with Mrs S and her canine candy floss, Ralph, so felt like I'd earned a sit down.  The husband had been working all day, and felt the same.  As we stretched out on the deckchairs I caught the husband staring wistfully at the parts of his legs which were on show between his work boots and the bottom of his shorts.

'You all right there?' I asked him, as a little smile played across his face.

'I've got really silly little legs', he said.

Well I wasn't having any of that.  'They're not silly', I said.  'They do what they're meant to, don't they?  They keep you upright and stop you dragging yourself across the floor on your arse which has got to be a good thing'.

Well it turned out that it wasn't the length of the legs which was the problem, but the amount and positioning of the hair on them.  The husband said that it was the first time he'd really looked at his legs since last year, and he was surprised that parts of his legs were fuzz free whereas other parts were uber hairy.  'Should I trim them?' he asked me. Well I was assuming that he meant the hair, because if he's talking about trimming his legs further, then this would put him into Hobbit territory.  This could make our swing dancing awkward, as no one likes to have a partner whose nose is wedged in between their cleavage....

So back to his legs.  I finally managed to persuade him that they didn't need shaving or trimming, as men's legs are best left alone.  I also had to woo him a bit to restore his confidence in his legs, and tell him how much I admired his manly calves...

Ladies' legs on the other hand...now that's a different matter altogether.  My legs are not seen in public between September and May unless sheathed in black opaque tights or trousers.  I do get them out when I swim with Mrs S, but I rely on her not having her glasses on so that she can't see the five o'clock shadow creeping up from my ankles.  

But I can hide them no more.  In two weeks, the population of Northern Italy will be subjected to my pins (they are more like a couple of flaky wooden spoons at the moment) so some buffing (I knew that electric sander would come in useful), moisturizer cream and a blade of some sort will be brought out of hibernation over the next few days and put to work. The trouble is, that once you start on the legs, the feet are jumping up and down screaming 'Me! Me! Me!'  

Now there is only so much I can do on my own, and it may be time to call on Mrs H who I rely on to keep everything from wrinkles to a mono-brow at bay.

She'll need a week's warning to steel herself for the first pedicure of the year...