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?
ANYWAY, THAT PAINT WAS FOR OTHER STUFF.
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.