A philosophical post about painting, or the attempt, or about not inheriting my father's talents

If there's a really big daub of cayenne paint on the white ceiling and nobody saw me do it, did it really happen?

It doesn't matter so much on the skirting boards, the paint is supposedly water-based and I can scrub it off later when I recover my dishevelled self.

It's hot here already today.

I'm not a painter ... I think I might actually just be a photographer and blogger, with an English teaching thing going on on the side.

And I'm thinking we might just have one feature wall of cayenne if I'm left alone with this painting thing ...

Why did I ever imagine painting a wall with a roller looked like fun???
Clearly it's more than time to put aside such childish thoughts.

The first coat of cayenne is drying ... on the wall. Unfortunately it's also drying on those other places too. I should have covered things with tape then peeled it off afterwards ... I think that's what Dad did.

Then again, I did point out to Gert that Dad was a craftsman and this craftswoman is only as good as her paint, brushes and roller ... equipment that would have caused Dad to say, 'I may as well use my bloody hand to paint because that's about how useful this stuff is!' or something like that.

He might have said it more colourfully, definately imagine explosively.
Dad has a way of leaving one without doubt when he is expressing his disgust about something.

I think Dad and Gert would fall out over the brushes and rollers being used on this job actually.

There ... I am vindicated. It's not my lack of fine motor skills nor my ineptness as a painter of walls ... it's the equipment ;)

Tot straks.