Diying a death

My children laugh when I attempt to pass on DIY skills. They tell me they'll earn enough money to pay someone else to it rather than get dirty themselves.

The past three days have been spent drowning in Solvite whilst trying not to disturb the male members of my family during important TV programmes. I've been re-decorating my living room (lounge-diner, in estate agent speak). Throughout this period of indulging my artistic side I have been in a cycle of prossie washing before donning the same scruffy, paste and paint stained clothes for 18 hours then collapsing into fitful sleep filled with dreams of steaming off 40 years of wallcovering (including my layer of emulsion that freshened everything quickly upon moving in), awkwardly sited radiator pipes and prepping woodwork.

More than half an hour after 2am tonight I matched the last pattern round yet another non-true corner and trimmed the last edges against the freshly whitened ceiling and newly glossed skirting board. Then, finally, I looked at it as a whole and actually stopped being anal about the few little imperfections; I even allowed myself some pride in the result before having the very best and most earned shower of my entire life. And I had to wonder whether my children are right.

Next on la-la lounges - building my own fire surround because I want one that no-one else has got.