His latest quest is to create a white picket fence between our front brick piers. He has held out for a white picket fence when I wasn't necessarily keen on the idea. Perhaps, somewhere in his dim, distant past, he had longed for a white picket fence that was denied him...
Last Tuesday, we headed for the wilds of the Big Smoke and Bunnings to collect the aforementioned pickets. Unbeknown to me, Michael's inflamed carpel tunnels in his wrists were giving him the whoops. Instead of saying, "Kate, I'm in pain today so please cut me a bit more slack", he bottled up his discomfort and turned into Obnoxious Man. Grumpy did not even come close. Helping him locate and load the required pickets caused me such serious angst that I almost inserted one up his nose.
Against my better judgement, I gritted my teeth until the Bitter End. The condition that I stayed at all in the bowels of Bunnings was that he would allow me open slather in the gardening section. With no whinging.
I left him to pay for the bloody pickets and fled to the open air. Bliss. I wandered up and down aisles of delightful and agreeable plants. As I was looking for colourful flora for our east facing guest room patio, I took my time and considered many specimens on their merits. Then the boom lowered..."I want to go home. Isn't it time to leave yet?"
I sent Michael away before I stabbed him between the eyes with a handy stake. As we moved towards the checkout, his complaints continued...what are all these plants for?...haven't you enough pots?...you're spending too much money!
He confessed his physical misery on the way home. I sucked in a furore of frustration and resolved not to kill him on the spot. Instead, we arrived home, unpacked and gratefully enjoyed a pizza and vino with gusto.
The pickets remained in the back of Lily until yesterday. Fired up with enthusiasm, he set up the pickets to undercoat them outside his workshop. Michael really loves working outside if at all possible. He was ready to roll. Until he tried to open the lid of the paint tin...
Which refused to budge. With irritation, he grabbed a large screwdriver to prise open the lid.,.A minute later, he appeared inside the Gallery with his face, glasses and shirt splatted with undercoat. "What happened", I innocently asked. "I don't want to talk about it" was his brusque reply.
With much laughter, we washed his glasses, mopped his face, ears and neck. He confessed that as the paint tin opened, the contents splashed with gay abandon. Undercoat 1, Michael 0.
This is not the first occasion that painting has caused chaos. Back at the House that Rocks, Michael decided to paint the feature wall of our guest room a shade called "Red Terra" after he'd consumed a few vinos. Stepping off the edge of the step ladder, he swan dived into the paint tray. Of Red Terra. One wall was supposed to showcase this colour. Instead, all walls, the ceiling and Michael bore testament to this particularly rich colour.
I believe that Michael and paint have a dangerous love/hate relationship. He may be coming to a point that he needs to be supervised with this product. At all times. This situation is particularly gratifying to me as I am usually the one within our relationship who attracts disaster.
Stay tuned!
Michael's default position when he is in pain...
Usually, one of my favourite places!
What I was tempted in insert somewhere into Michael...
What he should have done stepping off that ladder...
The result was not as pretty...
Michael versus paint tin...
The tin won!
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