There is a little known fact about Hell, as envisaged by Dante in his famous 'Divine Comedy'. What is not widely acknowledged is that, when Dante created his masterpiece, he actually included a further section about the tenth level of Hell, which later got cut by his publishers for being too awful to put into literary form.
The publisher allowed the groteque images of people being chewed for eternity in Satan's big old gob, he permitted people roasting on spits and all the rest of it, he allowed Dante to depict levels for all sorts of sinners, with all sorts of ironic punishments- but he banned Dante from writing about the TENTH LEVEL.
The tenth level is still known to this day as the DIY level of Hell. It is a level reserved for those people foolish enough to invest in properties that require a lot of work. These people are then destined to be trapped forever in an endless cycle of painting, trimming, stripping, tweaking and so on and so on.
I had no knowledge of this obscure level of hell until I moved to this house.
Oh god I am sick of it. The last god knows how many evenings have been spent frantically painting the spare room, in preparation for the arrival of the carpet this afternoon. Mr Carpet Man, who looks a little like an aged and somewhat booze addled Barney Rubble, popped over on Monday of this week, and cheerily informed us that it was best to get the painting done before he showed up armed with a spanking new carpet.
We heartily agreed, and laughingly insisted that it wouldn't be a problem - after all, the walls had already been done, and it was only the skirting boards and the ceiling that needed completing.
Famous. Last. words.
Cue Monday evening. An evening spent with a tin of gloss paint and a dusty room. nobody bloody told us that when it says 'pure brilliant white' on a pot of special gloss paint, actually, what it means is that it is just a slightly misty see-through varnish. I happily slapped it on to the skirting, before twigging that actually, rather than the swan white finish I was hoping for, I was getting just a slightly shinier and milkier shade of plywood.
'Not to worry!' I cheerfully exclaimed. After all, I could just wait for it to dry, then paint over the top with a white base coat, before re-glossing. no problems at all.
Except of course, (as this is the 10th level of hell we are talking about here, complete with all manner of ironic punishments befitting the idiot novice renovater) the sodding matte paint wouldn't sit on the gloss surface and kept rolling off.
At this point, the sensible renovater would have sanded off the gloss and started over.
But in my defence, it was now getting on for 9 o clock and I was more concerned about getting to my waiting glass of wine downstairs. So I simply doggedly kept slapping on more and more paint until eventually it got the hint. Is the skirting board looking a bit...well...shit? Yes. In a word, yes. But I got past caring.
The next evening, we had the second ironic punishment awaiting us. The curse of the never-ending 'trying to get the edges neat'. The ceiling paint went on. 'Not to worry!' I exclaimed again, as I went over the edges a bit. 'I can just touch it up later.'
One touch up later, and I'd managed to reverse the problem, this time spreading wall paint over the ceiling.
'Not to worry!' I still doggedly chanted. 'I'll just have to touch it up again!'
After about five rounds of this, the cheerful demeanour was most definitely slipping, and instead of invisaging a glass of wine downstairs, visions of the whole bottle were swimming before my eyes. In the end, husband and I both unanimously agreed that yes, it looked a bit rubbish, but that we couldn't be arsed to continue with this tomfoolery. Then we retreated downstairs.
Then we had the hilarity of the door frame that just wouldn't stop dripping gloss everywhere. I say hilarity. It wasn't funny though. Not at all. Especially not funny when I knocked the tin over and sent gloss all over the floor. (lucky we opted for carpet, eh!)
It WAS however, quite funny, when other half went to pop the lid on the tin and ended up hitting it at a funny angle, caving the lid in, and submerging his hands into the remaining gloss paint. If you've ever worked with gloss (and I sincerely hope that you've not done anything bad enough in your lives to have to warrent such torture) you will know that it isn't like normal paint. It doesn't wash off. Instead, it sticks clingily to your skin for days afterwards and means that you keep getting glued to things like tea towels and clothing.
I did laugh, I must admit. But then, as further ironic punishment, I managed to slop loads all over my hands as well.
The carpet is due to arrive in two hours. Is the painting finished? Is it hell.
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