IT is THAT time of the year again. We pray for the year to come to an end, and then get that sinking feeling at the thought of the craziness of Christmas.
Oddly enough, just as the building industry prepares to wind down business for the year, the DIY bug bites the rest of us.
So here I am painting acres of white wall with paint, that despite being called “evening mist” looks remarkably like more white paint.
I have spent hours up a ladder in a haze of of paint fumes.
Preparation is everything they say. First, reams of dropsheets all neatly taped to the floor; bought the right equipment for the job; prepared the surface area – well, more or less; and filled all the random holes and cracks with quick-set cement.
Even if I must say this myself, I can now wield a roller strapped to 2m of telescopic pole with the dexterity of an Olympic floor gymnast.
Enthusiasm only takes you that far. Isn’t it amazing how we always leave the really icky bits for last.
They have yet to design a roller that actually does two centimetre strips against the ceiling.
So out comes the ladder. Have you noticed how a ladder is never the right length for the job?
So there I was, entirely committed to the job at hand. Paint splattered clothing. Floors wall to wall with dropsheets. Walls shimmering with fresh paint, and the illusive two centimetres of unpainted wall grinning above me like a Cheshire cat.
I briefly entertained the thought of asking someone for a more appropriate ladder, but it was hot, I was tired, it was a Saturday afternoon, and the mere thought of conversing with another member of homo sapiens was beyond my range of social skills.
So all that was left to do was to point my ladder at the wall, and climb up, paint in hand.
Unless your CV includes part-time work as an acrobat in a circus troupe, standing on the second to last rung of a ladder – paint tray in one hand, brush in the other - does not come naturally.
If ever you were to find yourself in this predicament, I can recommend starting your assignment near a window. Thanks to our predisposition to fixing burglar bars to every window, there is at least something to grab at, should you fall.
Things get better once you have steadied yourself, and the ladder stops shaking; but only if you have been good about going to your pilates or yoga classes.
Unless you at this stage uncover a latent talent to rotate your upper body through 180 degrees.
Now, having overcome all these obstacles, you are bound to discover that your arms are simply too short for the job.
So instead of painting, you seem to spend more time climbing up and down the ladder simply to move it another 30cm further along the wall.
This exercise will eventually make the painting part of the job seem relatively easy.
There is however nothing that destroys one’s resolve more than standing on the second to last rung of the ladder and to watch a single drop of paint disengage from your paint brush and drift down to the floor.
Not to fall on the acres of carefully taped dropsheet on the pristine wooden floor, but to seek out like a hi-tech heat seeking missile, that one miniscule spot of exposed floor.
It is at that very moment that you think: Life sucks.
Well, that was yesterday.
Now that the walls have been painted, I find myself filled with a sense of pride and achievement. I can hardly recall the times I hobbled around like the hunchback of Notre Dame.
Instead I remember the phone calls of encouragement, the surprise visits, the offers to help paint, and eating lunch on the stoep in our dirty clothes.
The whole exercise made me think a little about life, and what really gives it sense and meaning.
This month as we walk through all the shops with their premature displays of Christmas, remember that the thrill of receiving a new gift is short-lived.
Let us rather wish for and give each other “good tidings of comfort and joy” this holiday season, and if anything, buy yourself a ladder that is tall enough.
