Friday, May 13, 2011

home improvements

Once, two days before Christmas at around 1am, I decided I could only truly be happy if I painted one of my bedroom walls magnolia. They were pale-purple, 'Ghost' by Dulux. They were crushing me. I undertook this magnolia endeavour immediately, with great gumption and enthusiasm, moving all the major obstacles to the lower end of my room and assembling them in a chaotic yet practical manner. I found some paint and a roller in the waiting-to-be-renovated bathroom and got to work. The wardrobe was too big to move, so I just painted around it.

At around 2.30am, satisfied with my level of paint coverage I stepped back to admire my work. At this point my Dad popped in to see why my light was still on. He did not seem as impressed by this sudden creative outburst; clutching his chest and choking, he staggered, seeming to experience a minor heart attack. Undaunted, I took this opporrtunity to announce, "TA-DA!" to which my Father, now swaying and foaming slightly at the mouth, responded by confiscating my paint roller. I was escorted to the spare room where I was informed that I had ruined Christmas. My Mum, who had pottered upstairs to investigate the noise, laughed and snorted silently into her sleeve as I was reprimanded for my foolish actions:

1. Did I have ANY IDEA what time it was?
2. Was I TRYING to kill the whole family with toxic fumes while they slept?
3. Did I PURPOSELY pour paint all over the wardrobe and floor? (Because they are DESTROYED, Sarah, DESTROYED.)
4. Did I REALISE that we would most likely starve and/or freeze to death because we couldn't afford food or oil or jumpers because ALL of the money would now have to be spent repainting my room?


Dad eventually stormed off still holding the roller, twitching and puffing and muttering about professionals. Mum said he was a bit tired. She commended me on my proactivity and initiative saying, excepting the area behind the wardrobe, I actually hadn't done too bad a job. Then we hid in the hot press and did secret laughing.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

god love a duck

God love a duck is what my Grandad says when he is expressing alarm or exasperation.

We had some ducks in our garden on Sunday morning. There were two boy ducks and a girl duck. We felt honored and deeply humbled that they had chosen our garden as their duck dock, so we gave them two crumbled up Cream Crackers. It was truly a bank holiday weekend miracle. We have a bathtub in the back garden so, thinking how marvelous it would be if the ducks lived with us forever, we began to gently coerce them up the front steps and through the house to their new home. We could dress them in tiny clothes and feed them the old vegetables that we don't get around to using and use them as an audience for when we do our plays and bring them to parties as our 'plus one'. It would be perfect.

Possibly sensing our plans, the ducks faltered in the act of hopping up the steps. Unwilling to sacrifice their unbridled freedom for the sake of a rusty bath and a few great parties, they turned around and flew away. We cried for a while and then went upstairs and had some eggs and lemonade.