painting a house

Painting is all very exciting when you're standing before the empty canvas, without paint dripping on the shoes you bought in Austria.

Then it goes and fucks with you.

The Brit and I have spent ten hours painting this week. And we've done two rooms out of five, in total.

Dude.

The roller splatters little microscopic flecks of paint on your hand and face, which at first, don't seem too unobtrusive.

As a collective, however: you walk out of the house looking like a giant egg. It's in my hair, on my face, all over my feet and I've buggered up my Austrian shoes.

I was holding the roller tray for so long last night, my hand went into cramp and my fingers were completely paralysed for, like, five minutes.

So all in all? Painting sucks hairy nutbag.

The previous owners - and what ambassadors of taste they were - had three layers of spongy white wallpaper applied to the bathroom and kitchen walls. (Why?)

Which we have to steam and chisel off.

We move tonight. Hired a van to lug the big furniture around.

I think I'd rather fondle a yak's udder set for 8 hours solid than haul my furniture around London.

My face might be flecked with paint not unlike an eggshell, but at least we can roll to our new local pub for a few well earned brewskis afterwards. And no doubt get drunk and obnoxious and behave like fucktards. With paint all over our faces.

As I write, there's paint in my hair. At the office. I thought it wouldn't be seen, so thought I'd wash my hair tonight instead.

I was wrong.