Ow. Ouch. Ow.
Aug. 26th, 2003 01:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
addersljI started the weekend full of plans. I was going to relax, unwind and have a bit of fun. I had no immediate deadlines, journalistic or gaming. I could have fun!
Instead, I spent most of the long Bank Holiday weekend rubbing down a wall with a wire brush, filling the holes with concrete and exterior filler, sealing and priming and finally painting.
My hand hurts.
To explain a little further, Lorna and I live in a Victorian house in Lewisham, built in the late 19th Century. The property is built into the hill, so the ground floor is above ground at the front and underground at the back. This means that there's a concrete passage at the back of the house, leading up to the garden steps. For years this has been a dank, festering path, lined with junk from the shop under our flat and constantly wet. Walking down the passage was a deeply unpleasant experience, one that put you off using the garden.
Some months ago, not long after we got married, Lorna decided that this had to change. For months we've been taking rubbish to the local dump, repairing drains and pipes, putting up retaining fences in the garden to sort out the ground levels and so on. Finally, we've reached the stage where we can sort out the wall.
The you discover the problem with a property well over a century old that's survived the Blitz. Cracks. Decades of patching with the materials of the day. Lead-based paint.
Saturday's job became Sunday's and Monday's as well. In the end, we knocked off painting at 8.30pm last night because it was too dark to paint anymore.
My hand hurts. When I close my eyes I see paint brushes and primer and bright white exterior paint.
We do it all again next weekend.
This, my friends, is the horrible truth of newly-weds feathering their nest.
Instead, I spent most of the long Bank Holiday weekend rubbing down a wall with a wire brush, filling the holes with concrete and exterior filler, sealing and priming and finally painting.
My hand hurts.
To explain a little further, Lorna and I live in a Victorian house in Lewisham, built in the late 19th Century. The property is built into the hill, so the ground floor is above ground at the front and underground at the back. This means that there's a concrete passage at the back of the house, leading up to the garden steps. For years this has been a dank, festering path, lined with junk from the shop under our flat and constantly wet. Walking down the passage was a deeply unpleasant experience, one that put you off using the garden.
Some months ago, not long after we got married, Lorna decided that this had to change. For months we've been taking rubbish to the local dump, repairing drains and pipes, putting up retaining fences in the garden to sort out the ground levels and so on. Finally, we've reached the stage where we can sort out the wall.
The you discover the problem with a property well over a century old that's survived the Blitz. Cracks. Decades of patching with the materials of the day. Lead-based paint.
Saturday's job became Sunday's and Monday's as well. In the end, we knocked off painting at 8.30pm last night because it was too dark to paint anymore.
My hand hurts. When I close my eyes I see paint brushes and primer and bright white exterior paint.
We do it all again next weekend.
This, my friends, is the horrible truth of newly-weds feathering their nest.
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Date: 2003-08-26 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 06:53 am (UTC):O)
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Date: 2003-08-26 11:58 am (UTC)