The Idle Biker
24-03-12, 11:38 PM
The reluctant decorator climbed the ladder paint pot and brush in hand. He stared up at the stairwell and sighed, that’s bloody high he thought and it’s gonna take some work. He glanced out the window, the sun glinting on his ZX7R and he forced himself to stay on the ladder as he reached upwards and begun cutting in the paintwork between the ceiling and wall.
He assured himself that his Wife would approve. She would return home in an hour or so from work and admire his masterful painting and nod approvingly. She would not however have approved of the £200 he’d just spent putting new chain and sprockets on his track bike. Best do a good job on this painting he thought and she might not mention the bank balance.
As he thought again about taking the Bike out he noticed the paint pot spiralling downward, the pot spun in slow motion, spiralling and crashing against the rungs of ladder. His thoughts turned to house contents insurance, accidental damage clauses, Reeder – feckin get out of my head Reeder?, the new Oak flooring that lay below him, his wife’s face when she came in, his wife’s face when she turned mad.
The pot spewed out its contents in a bizarre arcing effect leaving trails and splatters reminding him of a Tony Hart painting on Childrens TV. And then the randomness of his thoughts stopped.
He looked down at the mess. Jeez, cr@p, Holy Mother of God, look at the state of that floor. Quick towels, water, stop the paint going into the grooves of the Oak.
Having moved the ladder, pots, roller tray, dust sheet and other DIY crap from the hall to the kitchen he set about mopping and cleaning and wiping and hoping that the paint comes off OK.
10 minutes later, breathing a sigh of relief he admires his recovery work. Mmmm looks OK as good as new. He turns to see his stupid Lurcher dog - Willow, standing in kitchen with her front paws in the paint roller tray with a Wood Pigeon in her mouth. “Aw give me a break he groans, he reaches out gently to the dog, not wishing to startle. The dog eyes him suspiciously “this is my pigeon you catch your own”.
The decorator reaches quickly for the dogs collar, the dog know what’s coming and is ready. She is young and fast, the decorator thinks he is young and fast, but he is not. The dog dodges him runs past him with painted paws through the newly cleaned hall. She leaps up six stairs leaving painted paw prints on the top half of the stairs and bounds on to the decorators bed. She knows she’s not allowed upstairs, but she likes the wood pigeon and she wants to keep it. The decorator, maddened by this flagrant disrespect of his rules charges up the stairs and into the bedroom. The dog, sensing a good game, leaps off the bed to the opposite side.
The decorator cannot catch the dog. The quilt is covered in paint. The dog is back downstairs before the decorator even get’s close to her. The dog runs back through the house to the garden with the pigeon. The decorator smiles, walks to the fridge and cracks a Stella pint can open.
6 beers later the dog is still in the garden and I am posting this. I’ll let her back in soon. I promise. Tomorrow I’m riding not painting.
He assured himself that his Wife would approve. She would return home in an hour or so from work and admire his masterful painting and nod approvingly. She would not however have approved of the £200 he’d just spent putting new chain and sprockets on his track bike. Best do a good job on this painting he thought and she might not mention the bank balance.
As he thought again about taking the Bike out he noticed the paint pot spiralling downward, the pot spun in slow motion, spiralling and crashing against the rungs of ladder. His thoughts turned to house contents insurance, accidental damage clauses, Reeder – feckin get out of my head Reeder?, the new Oak flooring that lay below him, his wife’s face when she came in, his wife’s face when she turned mad.
The pot spewed out its contents in a bizarre arcing effect leaving trails and splatters reminding him of a Tony Hart painting on Childrens TV. And then the randomness of his thoughts stopped.
He looked down at the mess. Jeez, cr@p, Holy Mother of God, look at the state of that floor. Quick towels, water, stop the paint going into the grooves of the Oak.
Having moved the ladder, pots, roller tray, dust sheet and other DIY crap from the hall to the kitchen he set about mopping and cleaning and wiping and hoping that the paint comes off OK.
10 minutes later, breathing a sigh of relief he admires his recovery work. Mmmm looks OK as good as new. He turns to see his stupid Lurcher dog - Willow, standing in kitchen with her front paws in the paint roller tray with a Wood Pigeon in her mouth. “Aw give me a break he groans, he reaches out gently to the dog, not wishing to startle. The dog eyes him suspiciously “this is my pigeon you catch your own”.
The decorator reaches quickly for the dogs collar, the dog know what’s coming and is ready. She is young and fast, the decorator thinks he is young and fast, but he is not. The dog dodges him runs past him with painted paws through the newly cleaned hall. She leaps up six stairs leaving painted paw prints on the top half of the stairs and bounds on to the decorators bed. She knows she’s not allowed upstairs, but she likes the wood pigeon and she wants to keep it. The decorator, maddened by this flagrant disrespect of his rules charges up the stairs and into the bedroom. The dog, sensing a good game, leaps off the bed to the opposite side.
The decorator cannot catch the dog. The quilt is covered in paint. The dog is back downstairs before the decorator even get’s close to her. The dog runs back through the house to the garden with the pigeon. The decorator smiles, walks to the fridge and cracks a Stella pint can open.
6 beers later the dog is still in the garden and I am posting this. I’ll let her back in soon. I promise. Tomorrow I’m riding not painting.