Urgh, undercoating this door is going to be the death of me.
The door is going to end up twice as wide as it started out, such is the amount of undercoat we’re having to put on it. Every day I apply a coat – I leave it too late in the day to do two – and every day Carole comes home and says, “I think it could do with another coat…”
And every day a little bit of me dies inside.
I dislike painting, but I’m doing it. I’m doing what I’m told. I’m doing what needs to be done. But undercoating is… there’s no feeling of accomplishment. Top coat, proper paint is where it’s at. It’s where I want (but also don’t want) to be.
But I’m not.
I’m still doing undercoat because, apparently, this door was as dark as night and we are unable to hide that at the moment.
And I’ve tried to talk Carole out of it. It doesn’t really need another coat. Surely we can’t have to do another coat. Can we not just start with the top coat?
But I’ve just looked at it now, and it could do with another coat.
I don’t know.
The top coat could be the answer we’re looking for.
Not that it matters anyway, I can’t do any of the painting tomorrow as I’m carrying a five-litre bottle of weedkiller’s to my mum’s in the morning. In case you’re wondering, it weighs a lot. I’m thrilled about it. I’m supposed to be going to get some happy tablets from the doctor’s on the way to my mums but I’m considering sacking that off for the way there because of my heavy load. I can get them on the way back, or next week or something.
Basically any time I’m not carrying a heavy bag filled with poison, really.
Maybe I would rather be painting.