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'Decorating Delights' by Ruth Ainley

There are some days when you wish you had just stayed in bed.  Now, I’m not talking about the days when Alan Rickman or Johnny Depp drop by unexpectedly.  Nope.  I’m thinking of the days when the dog’s been sick, the washing machine breaks down – and hubby decides to decorate the sitting room.

But did I say hubby?  How foolish of me.  Because, as we ladies know, no man ever completes a task by himself.  Think of the old joke with a new twist: how many men does it take to change a light bulb?  One.  Yes, one – and a woman to fetch the new bulb, take the old bulb once it has been removed from its holder and pass the new bulb to said man who is standing, immobile, up the stepladder.  Get the picture?

So it was that when hubby said HE would decorate, I knew that it meant WE would decorate.  But the trouble started long before the delicate aroma of paint could fill the air…                    

Hubby No. 1 was not a DIY enthusiast.  It invariably took several weeks of nagging – sorry, motivational talking – just to get him to look at the paint charts.  And that was my first mistake because, as the ladies reading this article will confirm, it is a given rule that men have no interest in interior design.  Nope.  They will paint the sitting room any colour you want – including ‘Flamingo Pink’ or ‘Tahitian Sunset’ – as long as the job’s done and the TV is back in its rightful place in time for the football/rugby/snooker/darts/all of the aforementioned. 

However, determined that this would be a joint decision (I would, therefore, only incur half the blame when everything went wrong) I persisted – for four long hours.  Round one went to hubby, round two was mine on points, during round three divorce was mentioned on several occasions (how prophetic…) and by round four the dog had taken cover under the piano.  But just as the football was starting on TV (a curious coincidence?) hubby pointed to a little rectangle on the paint chart – the little rectangle that had been my first choice four hours previous.  And the name of this delightful colour?  Split Decision.  Perfect.   

So the paint was bought and dust gathered thick upon the lid as it languished in the cupboard under the stairs for several months.  And then mother-in-law phoned and invited herself up for a holiday and I learnt rule number 352 of married life – forget the ‘motivational talking’, just have mother-in-law to stay and suddenly any little DIY task previously mentioned and subsequently postponed will be completed.

Hence, bright and early one Sunday morning, I padded downstairs and found hubby standing like a latter day Michelangelo in the middle of the sitting room, paint roller in hand, contemplating the task before him.  And he smiled – a most unnerving sight at that hour of the day.

“I could do with a hand to shift the furniture,” he remarked casually. 

My heart sank.  But after a fortifying cup or three of coffee (I’m a great believer in the power of caffeine – it should be free on the NHS) I obliged.  Sofas, display cabinet, TV, all were removed from the room.  And then, as I bent to lift a stray magazine, I heard that ominous little ‘pop’ and I couldn’t move.  Yes, my back had ‘gone’.

As I dropped to the floor, hubby threw me a concerned look – we still had the piano to shift.  But, with unnerving perceptiveness, hubby remained silent and, ensuring that I was ‘perfectly comfortable’ lying flat out on said floor, scuttled off to get the dustsheets.  Let nothing stand in the way of progress, thought I…

And hubby was amazingly considerate.  Upon his return he informed me that since I was lying in the optimum position for scrutinising the ceiling I could tell him if he missed any bits – and he covered me with a dustsheet.

Some time later, the ceiling was finished.  And as hubby descended from the stepladder, a satisfied smile upon his face and a hearty sigh upon his lips, he asked if I could rustle up a little lunch for the two of us.  At this point I found I was surprisingly fluent in a second language – and it wasn’t conversational Spanish.

However, feeling sorry for the poor chap, I struggled to my knees and made my way to the kitchen, crawling on all fours.  And within the merest hint of time (okay, half-an-hour later) I’d managed to produce a veritable feast – well, a cheese sandwich.  And did my better half applaud the teeth-gritting effort?  Nope.  He merely reminded me that we’d had cheese on toast for lunch the day before and, since I was mobile again, could I help shift the piano? 

“Of course,” I replied, in honeyed tones. “Harness me up like a husky and I’ll move it all on my ownsome.” The sarcasm was not lost on the man and, leaving the kitchen in a huff, hubby went to contemplate round two of the decorating. 

Now, forgive me, but I’ve got to ask – why do men spend so much time in contemplation of a task?  Do they labour under the misapprehension that more contemplation = less hard graft?  Beats me.  But hubby stood in silent contemplation of said task for 10 minutes…which stretched to 20 minutes…which became half-an-hour…

And I became intrigued. Foolishly, I crawled into the sitting room and enquired if there was anything I could do to help, hoping that a gentle nudge would inspire hubby to actually start painting.  And it worked – but not in the way I had intended. 

For hubby suddenly became animated. Producing a paintbrush from thin air, he asked me to paint round the skirting (since I was at that level anyway) and halfway up the walls (since I was at that level anyway) and round the electrical sockets (since I was at that level anyway). He, meantime, would ‘rattle on’ with the paint roller and we’d be done in half the time.  Grasping the paintbrush with a firm grip (who said I was imagining it to be hubby’s neck?) I asked myself if I would ever learn…

Three hours later, job completed, hubby went for a relaxing soak in the bath to ease his aching muscles.  I’ll order the pizza then, shall I?

One week later and mother-in-law arrived.  And she admired the newly painted sitting room.  And she admired HUBBY’S handiwork.  And HUBBY’S choice of paint. And the amount of physical effort HUBBY had – obviously – poured into the task.  And hubby’s modest reply? “I couldn’t have done it without Ruth’s help - she did make lunch.”