A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday July 18th 2021
It’s past mid July, and Isis is still shedding pretty little wedges of bright white undercoat. Although they continue to drop daily, they are, I have to admit, dropping much less frequently, so, hopefully, we will avoid the ultimate nightmare scenario ……………………..
There are still some nasty moments though. Rather a lot of these occurred yesterday.
I have just finished replacing and varnishing a number of floorboards. Gaps were left after the removal, several years ago, of a defunct gas fire. I’d disguised the problem by shoving a large bookcase on top of the gaps. A few weeks ago, I wanted to get rid of the bookcase: hence the repairs.
I suvey my handiwork. It’s not perfect, but I’m quite pleased with myself. Not bad for an amateur, I decide.
Unfortunately, the only paint I can find is very old. Foolishly, I use it. Although it is water based, it is extremely sticky.
I fit a new section of skirting board, then apply the first coat of paint.
Hmmmm. Nasty stuff. I shouldn’t have used it. I’ll buy some new paint to finish the job.
I take the tin and my brush into the kitchen and turn on the tap.
I forget that, inevitably, I am carrying a generous share of Hairy One’s coat about my person: let’s face it, being hairily compromised is not one’s first consideration when concentrating on household tasks.
I attempt to wash out my brush with detergent and water.
Suddenly, the brush, the sink, the draining board, a nearby saucepan – in fact, everything within reach of my panicky fingers – is coated with sticky paint.
Then, as though drawn by some malevolent magnetic power, dog hairs fly from the ether and adhere to the paint.
Now I have hairy utensils, a hairy draining board and a hairy sink.
I try to wipe the saucepan, but my fingers are now webbed with paint and hairs.
At this point, Isis, wondering, no doubt, what is going on, and, maybe, wanting a pat, strolls into the kitchen.
I am in no position, of course, to give her touch commands.
“Please, please, don’t come any closer, and please, please don’t shake yourself, dear,” I beg silently.
Thankfully, she does neither. She stands still just inside the kitchen and looks puzzled.
Transfixed by the chaos, I become aware that a patch of sticky hair-paint has even reached the floor.
How on earth did that happen?
Ah yes, it must have trickled from the brush down my arm to my elbow, then dribbled over my t-shirt and onto my shorts before continuing its journey down my right leg and plopping onto my Crocs. After that, it would have been easy for it to dribble onto the floor.
No mystery there, then. In fact I can see the snail-like trail.
I jerk myself out of my reverie, and gaze into the sink.
Where on earth do I begin?
I grab the handwash, but hastily drop it when I see the gluey white prints I’ve just deposited on the bottle.
“Now, Pat,” I say aloud, “You have to begin somewhere. Just do it.”
It’s a long and thankless task, but I eventually succeed in removing from everything the glutinous blobs which lurk like sticky spiders, hoping to entrap whatever crosses their path.
Now I feel contaminated all over. Even my face is tingling with hairy paint sensations, and I can feel something twitching in my hair.
I imagine my skin is spattered with nasty bits.
I race upstairs to the bathroom and peer into the mirror.
To my surprise, there’s nothing on my face or in my hair; nevertheless, the sensations refuse to go away.
I stop for a coffee.
There are even hairs sticking to the blasted biscuits I nibble.
Past caring, I peel off the hairs and eat the biscuits anyway.