Thursday, 11 June 2009
is rapidly draining away from my enfeebled being.
Amongst my many ill-assorted possessions are several items of cheap, mass-produced bits of furniture that could, if you stretch the imagination sufficiently (i.e. a lot), be transformed into a reasonable stab at a Scumble Goosie-type of loveliness at a fraction of the cost. The cost of paint, that is, not the human cost to my mental and emotional wellbeing.
So far, I have painted some walls (that was fine; quick and rewarding), primed a bookcase and a small table (slightly tedious and a bit smelly), and applied part of the first coat of paint on said bookcase. Still to be done: finish first coat, apply second coat, varnish twice. Then do the same with small tables (two) and a trunk. It's hardly technically taxing, but it's soooooooooooo boring, and I am soooooooooooo not in touch with my furniture painting side. Or maybe just bone idle. Whatever.
This may take some time, because of all the stopping to sigh, make cups of tea, read other blogs, look out of the window pondering the meaning of thrift, and consider the case for half-painted furniture as the new aesthetic.
Or, because she said that painting furniture was a lovely occupation, just persuading Lesley to take on the task in exchange for home made cakes and ice cream.