Day 293: Reasons to Keep On Sanding

Move away from the paintbrush.
You are not ready. 

Saturday.  Jim and Brian are STILL finding reasons to keep on sanding. 

The spectrum of painting and decorating is a very broad one.  At one end there are people like my ex-flatmate, Sally - who once painted her bedroom orange, but only to her short arm's reach (no step-ladder or desire to stand on a chair) and only one thin, scanty coat with lots of show-through (lack of commitment plus cheap paint). 

At the other end there are people like Jim and Brian, who do things properly.  That means sanding down, filling, more sanding down, then and only then undercoating (more sanding), then two top coats.  Which must dry perfect.  Any spots of rain will mean slight pitting in the gloss surface.  This will mean more sanding, and a re-application of the top coat.  Their quote - which initially seemed rather high - now seems almost embarrassingly low, when ranged against the number of man hours they've put in. 

It is a brilliant thing to see a job being done well.  Whatever it is.  No skimping.  No corner-cutting.  When talking to Brian it is quite clear that he gets an immense sense of satisfaction from what he does.  Is that why he does such a good job?  Or does the fulfilment come from the effort invested?  The knowledge that he could not have done any more?   

Hard to separate the two.  Note to self. 

Day 292: Display Buns

The best sort of morning for a run.  Crisp air, bright sun, dew sparkling on the grass.  So lovely that I'm not surprised I hit my fastest average time yet (yes, I am still in thrall to the GPS slave-driver). 

By afternoon any crispness has long since disappeared, to be replaced by proper summer heat.  The Abbey orchard is full of people lolling in the heat.  Ice-creams, and vests and indolence.  Down one of the paths comes a youth - top off, jeans precariously hanging at half-buttock, boxers proudly displayed. 

'Pull 'em up, mate!'  Surprised and amused to hear this loudly and clearly shouted by a lad in a group sitting behind me.  His tone is admonishing and pitying in equal degree.  Youth-on-youth heckling. 

On the whole you don't hear much street heckling these days.  When I was a teenager, if you were fat (as I was) you were an immediate target. 

These days my teenage self wouldn't even register as a contender.  Fat standards have changed.  More and bigger. 

The youth in St Albans have got used to fat.  But I'm proud that they're still holding out against buttock-riders. 

Day 291: Not Fit For Business

The sun is shining down brilliantly on Chancery Lane, which is full of people dressed to do BUSINESS.  The current fashion if you are a (young) man is to be on the point of dangerously exploding out of your shirt and trousers.  This does not mean you are fat.  Far from it - this is a style for the properly 'hench'.  The shirt and trouser (deliberate tailor-style use of the singular here) should look one size too small.  To me it looks uncomfortable and sweaty. 

For women (young and would-be-young), business demands stripper heels and a unforgivingly tight tailored dress.  To me it looks even more uncomfortable and sweaty than the male version.  At least the men can wear flat shoes (albeit ridiculously pointy). 

I wonder how many people enjoy dressing like this?  Perhaps many do, because they feel fashionable. 

And the arbiters of fashion?  Skinny stick men made from ketosis and bitchery (see Karl Lagerfeld). 

No thanks.  (And with this I justify my old and battered work shoes, still not replaced - see Day 88, back in February...)

Day 290: Maximus Decimus Pineappleus

A perfect September day, with warm sun and a clear, fresh breeze.  London is sort-of back to school, but reluctantly.  I wonder how many people are desperately hanging on to the tail ends of work-from-home-for-the-duration-of-the-Olympics.  The City certainly seems emptier than normal.  In the relative peace, I wander up Ludgate Hill freely, not having to dodge any suits barking into mobiles.  Recently-cleaned St Paul's looks at its absolute best, bone white against the blue sky.  I cannot find a picture that does it justice.     

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty

Pineappley

More Pineappley

Apparently the two towers are topped off with a pineapple apiece. Not because Sir Christopher particularly enjoyed fruit salad (although he may well have done), but because the pineapple is a symbol of peace, prosperity and hospitality. 



That explains the pineappleyness of so many wallpaper designs and finials.  I'd always wondered. 

Maximum Pineapple

Some may say that it's possible to go too far with the whole pineapple thing, though. 

Not me. 

 

Day 289: Getting Wood

A day of industry and movement.  The sash window in the sitting room is removed completely, fixed and put back.  There is new architrave on the front door.  New skirting board.  Rotten window sills chipped away and replaced.  There are swear words and many cups of tea. 

I am despatched to a trade timber yard, which appears deserted until a man zooms up in a forklift truck.  He grunts at me.  I tell him what I want - 1.2m 75 x 75 PAR (yes, obviously I want it PAR - I may be a civilian but I can pretend I'm not).  He nods, and accelerates away, beckoning me to follow him.  I trot after the forklift obediently like a dog in a farmyard.  In the office, where I pay a stupidly small amount for my piece of timber (never again, B&Q), I am eyed with suspicion.  I'm not about to divulge that I'm running an errand for Mick the carpenter.  By my silence I am implying (worryingly) that it's quite possible that I, a lady, am replacing a window sill myself.  (This is pure fantasy on my part - I'm happy to attempt most DIY jobs, but window carpentry is just a step too far.  Know your limits.)

The house smells of fresh wood.  Exciting.   

Day 288: Web-Wrecker

A spider has decided to set up web around the recycling boxes, in such a way that to open any of them means instant web-destruction.  As has happened three times so far, but this spider is committed to rebuilds, and a delusional optimist.  'Oh, it'll be fine this time around.  Hey ho - just feeling lucky today!' 

Or possibly, the web-breakages are being taken as positive proof that this is rich feeding ground - unable to hold the magnitude of the catch.  You're gonna need a bigger web etc. 

Or maybe, just maybe, spiders are really thick, and don't understand recycling policy. 

Day 287: Roast Wars

A klutz day.  Which makes a simple Sunday roast a dangerous thing.

1.  To remove the cooked chicken from the roasting pan, it is not recommended that you stick a fork up the bird, head-on-pike style.  Leverage will result in molten cooking juices and cavity steam burning your fork hand, and serving it right. 

2.  When adjusting red-hot oven shelves, do not use your bare hands.  Skin tends to stick and blister.  Somewhere in the kitchen there should be an ovenglove*.

3.  It is fine to parboil potatoes for roasting.  It is not a good idea to balance the parboiling pot, filled to the brim with soaking water, on top of the grill pan which is in turn balanced on the ovenglove* on the lid of the bin.  It is likely that when you are crouched at the freezer, seeking peas, you will catch the handle, and bring a clattering Jenga tower of metal and a tsunami of starchy water over yourself, and the kitchen floor, right at the crucial moment when gravy is boiling and broccoli threatens to over-steam.

4.  If you are sloshing around the kitchen, bruised, wet and burned, do not attempt to cut corners by turning roast potatoes with your fingers.  You have turned the heat right up to 'crisp them.'  And this is what will happen.  To the potatoes and your fingers.

5.  If you are unlucky/incompetent enough to complete steps 1-4, please ensure you have a plum crumble for pudding.  This will make everything alright.