|Is it Art?|
No - it's my designer decorating trews.
While George and Amal Clooney are snuggling up on their sofa, watching "Keeping Up With the Kardashians" on their mammoth TV set, I very much doubt that Amal cajoles George to re-decorate their bedroom. I just can't visualise George donning old decorating clothes and shifting the furniture or heading off to the local branch of B&Q to purchase paint, wallpaper, filler and all the other stuff you need for a domestic decorating project.
It's something that rich people never experience. When's the last time that Mick Jagger wielded a paint roller? When's the last time Donald Trump got barley white emulsion in his eye when painting a ceiling? When's the last time Queen Elizabeth II had to use white spirit to clean up her hands and brushes while standing over the kitchen sink?
All of this preamble is leading to the confession that I have finally succumbed to the psychological pressure cleverly applied by Lady Pudding to achieve her target - the redecoration of our bedroom..
For three days, I have been a virtual prisoner, crawling about, up and down the step ladder. scraping, sanding, pasting, glossing, re-coating, wiping down. These are practical actions unknown to The Kardashians or Kim Jong Un. And at sixty three I begin to feel various aches and pains connected with decorating. I especially dislike having to lie on my belly on the floor, simply because it's bloody hard to get up again. I need to keep protecting my right knee from injury.
My unwelcome incarceration and the slavish drudgery have been slightly relieved by BBC Radio 4. It has taken my mind away from the bedroom of punishment. I wonder if Nelson Mandela listened to Radio 4 on Robben Island. Perhaps that's what got him through quarter of a century of unjustified imprisonment. He might have broken rocks there but I doubt that he ever glossed any skirting boards.
The job is still not done. The final act will be to wallpaper the wall at the head of our bed. I have already put good quality lining paper up on that wall. The top paper we chose cost £39 a roll and there are blue peacocks on it. In months to come, I will probably experience nightmares in which I hear the late night alarm calls of peacocks from my dingy cell before waking up in a fevered sweat.
Today I am being allowed out on parole so the papering will have to wait till tonight or tomorrow. As usual on a Wednesday, I shall soon be off down to the Oxfam charity shop to do my bit for an organisation that has done so much great work around the world through the past seventy five years. I just hope that the manager - Catherine - doesn't ask me to paint anything.
|Our peacock paper.|