Painting is supposed to be therapeutic.
But when they say that, I don’t know if they mean watercolours and all that nonsense, or whether they mean slapping a bit of paint on a doorframe.
Which is what we’re doing at the moment.
I suppose, in a way, it is therapeutic. It’s a break from the hustle and bustle of every day life. It’s just you, a pot of paint and a brush. And whatever you can find to put on the radio or TV to stop it being just you, the brush and the paint.
There are, I find, a number of problems with painting. The main one, I find, is that when you’re painting with white paint over something that already has a coaty white paint, or white undercoat, it is very hard to know which bits you’ve painted and which bits were already painted.
Sure, you can look out for the glisten of fresh paint, but that’s not always foolproof. We’re working in the hallway at the moment where light is not the greatest attribute that area has to offer. I spent a while this afternoon painting over a spot, not being able to understand why it wasn’t getting any lighter only to eventually realise I was painting a shadow.
But the biggest thing with the door frame is that it’s the frame around the front door, and the door to the living room directly off of that. So when you paint it, given that the paint has a six hour dry time, you have to send out warnings about being careful when you come in, lest you lean against the frame to take your shoes off or something equally daft.
I told Carole about it, and three hours later she had forgotten.
I didn’t even remember it was wet while I was painting it. I went to do the top of the doorframe around the front door and decided to put my hand out, onto the doorframe to the left of me, to steady and support myself as I did it.
The doorframe which I had painted not five minutes prior.
So I had a painted left hand, and I had blocked myself into the hallway with a table so that I had somewhere I could rest the paint.
And the doorframe had a lovely handprint in it.
I don’t know why I bother…