Paint Traumatic Stress Disorder

Following on from last week, having decided to start 2020 by freshening up my flat by painting 7 door frames, two doors and two lots (the collective noun) of skirting boards, I was, after 5 minutes of undercoating, incredibly bored.
But I had reached the “paint of no return” and thought I’d “Keep calm and carry on.”
After another 5 minutes, I decided “Life isn’t about the journey but the destination” (and that I really had to stop visiting bucket shops and reading life affirming tea-towels) and would do the painting in small stages, over the course of a week. Only the Sistine Chapel and The Forth Bridge would’ve taken longer to paint.
None of the YouTube painting instructors I’d studied wore gloves, but they strangely didn’t suffer the same fate as me where blue paint slid down the bristles of the brush, along it’s handle, over my fingernails, across my hand and up my arm, making me look like a cross between a bad Eddie Izzard impersonator and a Smurf.
In an attempt to wash it off, I accidentally smeared blue paint on the sink tap and had to wash that too. On rinsing out the brushes and rollers, I’d inadvertently painted the sink and had to clean that. On lifting the plastic dust-sheet, I found it had somehow stuck to the bottom of the door and had to be peeled away, which, of course, meant I had to repaint some of the door.
It also, deceived me into thinking that plastic wasn’t absorbent, so I was shocked to discover I had accidentally painted some of the carpet and had to scrub that too. Everything I vaguely touched had to be scoured.
The now paint-splashed clothes I’d worn had to be thrown away, the ultra-sticky masking tape had peeled paint from the walls and the nauseating smell of paint lingered for days. The reality was nothing like the easy YouTube videos.
So, I’m definitely leaving it until 2030 before I paint again.



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