Skirting Boredom

It's not the least rewarding task in DIY but it's certainly one of the jobs I've enjoyed least over the past few weeks: undercoating skirting boards and architrave is pretty slow work and, let's be honest, how often do you actually notice the paint job on someone else's woodwork? The truth is, you only notice if it's rubbish. I fear that, by that rationale, mine may attract attention.

I arrived at the flat at around 10am this morning and painted pretty solidly until 8.30pm - with the help of my two parent-shaped apprentices until 3pm and a Katherine-shaped distraction for half an hour later on in the afternoon, when I paused and ate fig rolls. Overall, progress has been undeniably and disappointingly slow on the decorating front and I'm having to face up to the reality that neither my bathroom nor my kitchen will be painted when I move in. Still, as long as the taps work, the loo flushes and the fridge is cold, I think I'll survive; it will take a lot more than bare plaster to make me push back my move date.

After the day's DIY was over, it was time to leap in the car and head south to my favourite Croydon superstore, Ikea, to pick up a few essentials for next week's building work. I scampered down the stairs outside my flat to the faithful Honda, trying to force some adrenaline into my system in preparation for the mission ahead. However, my first hurdle was greeting me rather sooner than I'd expected: the car had been blocked in by another vehicle, a small white stick shift that had been thoughtfully parked perpendicular to my automotive rear. The gap that remained was inadequate. I know this because I tried, and failed, to reverse through it. Stumped, I resorted to drastic measures and honked my horn. Twice. But to my irritation, no guilty party shot down the stairs to rescue me.

I was stuck. At 8.30pm. On a Saturday night, when I should have been driving to Ikea. It was time to pull out the big guns. Like a girl possessed, I tried the white car's handle. Miraculously, the door opened. The car's interior light glowed a threatening UV blue and the hazards started flashing, but thankfully no alarm sounded. I positioned myself, took off the handbrake and pushed, 100% uncertain if I would be strong enough to shift the car up the slight incline on which it was parked. Feeling like an unsettling combination of an independent goddess and a massively unattractive, over-capable, butch, Wagnerian heroine, I rolled the car forwards, put the handbrake back on, returned to my car and, in a scene not unreminiscent of the Austin Powers electric buggy 400-point turn, eventually manoeuvred out of the space.

After that, Ikea was a breeze. This time, everything was in stock, the queues weren't too long, the child count was mercifully low and I managed to resist buying a headboard and a chest of drawers as I maturely decided to wait until I've lived in the flat for a bit. OK, plus I had a tragic fantasy about me and and Mr L'Atelier returning Croydonwards at an unspecified future date to pick a couple of things out together. Ikea shopping toute seule is undeniably efficient but a gal can get a bit sick of being solo. It's that same feeling as when you go to the supermarket after work, all excited about your night in watching crap TV, and you find your delicious ready meal and go to the checkout and put it on the conveyor belt and then pause to look around you and realise that everyone else is buying eight bottles of wine for their fun parties and that in between laughing with their friends, they're staring at you with pity and suddenly the evening in doesn't seem quite so fun any more.

Not that that's ever happened to me.