Bleak House

With the slashing rain, numbing wind and general foulness of a British winter, we’re having the sort of weather when you close your front door, position the dog as a draught excluder, light a roaring fire and toast your crumpets.

Unless you’re my father.  

He has ripped out his front door and half the front of his house.  Admittedly, the extreme ventilation system only lasted a day or two before the replacement door and glass walls were installed, but now that they’re in, they need painting. 

Guess who gets to do that?

The first bit wasn’t too bad.  Lots of initial sanding required rapid hand movements and with the stretching up and down the door frame, all in all I was quite warm.  Then the painting started and nice warming speed sacrificed for accuracy.  After several hours outside in far too few clothes, I resolve to return in the thermal equivalent of an arctic sleeping bag.

The next morning, I find my father has parked his car on the front door step and there is a sign on the new glass wall saying DO NOT ENTER.  Front door is open.  Given continuing freezing rain, I have vague hopes of emergency which necessitates cancelling today’s painting.  Go round the back, but door is locked.  Go back to the front again.

Me:         Hello?

Father:    Good, you’re here.  Come in

Me:         What’s the sign for?

Father:    To keep people out

Me:         Why’s the car there?

Father:    To keep people out

It transpires he has not shut the front door since I left the day before, to allow the paint to dry.  Sensible for a few hours perhaps, but see paragraph 1 again, and reassess decision based on prevailing weather conditions.

This also means he has left the front door open all night, hence the DO NOT ENTER sign.  Personally, I’m not convinced your average burglar would read it and think, Oh, I’d better not go in then.  And especially when he has left them a getaway vehicle backed onto the doorstep. 

This time I paint all inside door edges first and demonstrate they are near enough to shut-dry before I leave. 

Hope to find winter has swopped places with summer for tomorrow’s painting.  And that my father has not been stolen.