Richard Hearn is seeing red over the decorating

I’ve been painting our living room. (Or as I call it, Hove’s answer to the Forth Bridge). Yes, it’s taken me a while to get round to it, but I’m finally doing it, and it’s a big event. We had decided that a couple of the walls should be a strong red. I say ‘decided’, we still needed to work out which red, and we tried out four match pots bought three months ago, which was the same time that we took the radiator off the wall. These had names like Broken Promises* , Raspberry Destinations* and Billiard Room Trauma * Then we got three more match pots. Then a couple more.

These varying streaks of red (I’ve never been a fan of painting in a neat rectangle) suggested a look I’d call Serial Killer Chic. You’ve heard of Jasper Conran at Debenhams? This was more Hannibal Lecter at Homebase.

“This was more Hannibal Lecter at Homebase”

We decided on AB positive (Nigel) – I mean ‘Fireside’ – and bought a larger pot. I’d been so used to holding a match pot as a norm, when holding a normal tin of paint I felt like one of the Borrowers.
The wall going red was big news in the Hearn household. Why ‘watching paint dry’ is used as a simile for boredom I don‘t know; I could have sold tickets. The Boy kept doing an impression of surprise like someone being hit over the head with a clanging bell. Firstly at the sight of the walls and later at the commandeering of the tiny step ladder from the garden, recently bought to assist Youngest™ onto the trampoline. Youngest™ himself kept pointing with a serious expression, saying ‘red’ and doing the sign (an index finger smeared across his lips to indicate lipstick).

Keen decorating nuts will notice I haven’t mentioned the woodwork, cutting in, or other technical details. Don’t worry; it’s all in hand. I worked fairly solidly through the Saturday and part of Sunday only breaking off to get fish and chips between coats while smeared with what must have looked like dried blood. The man in the chip shop was very, very polite to me, but so would you be, if you were serving up a serial killer mushy peas.

I’m making light of it, but this is no laughing matter. Especially as we’ve settled back, had time to digest the colour and we’re now thinking we may have to change it (I say we, I mean my wife). New match pots are being bought. Just like one of Hannibal Lecter’s victims, this red colour’s days may be numbered.
* All names of colours have been changed to protect the innocent/hide our tracks.

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