We've been painting. That's maybe a bit posh. More accurately we've been slarting paint, cheap white paint, onto the exterior walls that we have around the house.
It always starts well intentioned enough, we clean the surfaces down a bit but, in the end, it's loading up the brush and slapping the stuff on. It feels quite Spanish splashing the paint onto the walls even though I did the same with distemper and whitewash as a youth in the UK.
It made me think about those adverts on the telly. That one for a yogurt that reduces bloating and keeps your bowel movements regular. Or the ones for white goods like dishwashers and washing machines. The houses those people live in don't have exterior walls where the emulsion needs replacing every year. Those houses don't have the kitchen work surfaces heaving under the paraphernalia of everyday life. Pah!, I say, to those adverts where two young people transform their home with a pot of paint and loads of smiles. Don't they get paint in their hair, doesn't it make their bones ache?