I did some stripping of paintwork today, taking off the hundreds of layers of paint on our bedroom door frame which, if nothing else, will make the doorway feel bigger whenever we use it. Whoever has previously done the painting in this house was a big fan of thick layers which are an absolute git to shift with any ease.
I did about an hour of stripping, stopping when the smell of old, hot paint got on my nerves and became the dominating feature of the air I was breathing. I need to go back and do some more tomorrow, under the same rules, to complete the job. My excitement at the prospect of this knows no bounds, I’m sure you can imagine.
So I did all this around ten hours ago.
I am thrilled to announce that despite having the windows open on this beautifully chilly afternoon, the smell has remained within the room.
I was kind of hoping to go to bed tonight and not be breathing in some undoubtedly noxious fumes while I slept. Passively absorbing chemicals as I dreamt of strange and wonderful things, possibly fuelled by those same chemicals leaching into my brain.
And that’s without lying there wondering, paranoidly, if it’s actual the smell of a slowly burning, hitherto unknown to us, underfloor element which has caught the heat of the gun when I’m gone to the bottom of the frame and has been slowly smouldering ever since, just waiting for the most dramatic moment to burst into full flame.
Although, if that did happen, hopefully it’d take care of the remainder of the paintwork that I didn’t do today.