Right mate, that's us done if you want a quick look?
We had decorators in. Not that I meant a euphemism for the Good Lady being on the moon cycle but genuine decorators.
It had caused a bit of an argument between myself and the lady wife but she had stuck to her guns.
Why? Why are we paying someone to do something like decorating? I can bloody well do it?
I had wailed plaintively at her when she suggested we spunk our money away by paying random men to come into our house and smear stuff on our walls.
Darling, we are both so busy. Wouldn't it be nice to just pay some professionals to take the burden off us and let us kick back a bit?
The Good Lady had beamed at this point as if she saw us sipping cocktails on some luxury cruise liner somewhere instead of running around still wiping the arses of our children.
Oh hang on... I know what it is...
I had stared at the Good Lady in horror.
I know what it is. You want someone else to do it because you think my DIY is shit?!?!
I had thrown my hands up in a state of discombobulation. Oh no, I really don't! I just think it would be nice to have some professionals do the work for a change. She said this with the sweetest of smiles and the sincerest of eyes. Therefore, I knew she was lying. This is how, some weeks later we had chartered the services of a small decorating firm to strip the bedroom of wallpaper, put up some new backing paper and paint it all. The day had come and they had arrived. There were two younglings with spots and protruding jaws supervised by Wagner - the head honcho. He had shaken my hand and assured me all would be well and it would only take two days. So I had left him to it and now had been called in at the end of the first day to inspect the results of the team's work. That's the stripping and papering done. Tomorrow the painting. What ye think then? Looks good eh? Wagner waved a hand at the room in which all the old paper had been stripped and new backing paper put up. I looked around. Hmm, some of the paper is overlapping? I pointed to a clumsily papered section of the wall. Ah that bit? Don't worry, once the paint is on you won't notice it. Wagner smiled condescendingly and nodded like a large dog having its chest rubbed vigorously. There is another bit over there and a gap? It looks really bad. That bit? Don't worry, I will get the lads to go over that bit. Wagner put his hands on his hips and surveyed the walls with an almost reverent wonder. It was a good job they did for you, I am proud. He turned as if ready to head for the door. Erm, did you move the wardrobe? The wardrobe? I don't think you asked us to move the wardrobe? Wagner looked puzzled as if finding one of those little black Hiroshima chicken shadows in the yolk of his hard-boiled egg. I walked over to the wardrobe and moved it forward. Jesus fucking christ mate? You didn't do behind the fucking wardrobe? What the fuck? Were we not meant to move it, ever? I slapped the wardrobe as hitting inanimate objects seemed to be my new thing. There is no need for the language. You never asked us to move your wardrobe! He looked at me sulkily as if he were 6 years old and I had told him that Santa was actually his fucking dad. And hang on, look. You didn't strip the old stuff off underneath? I pointed at what was blatantly the old wallpaper on show. Wagner pulled himself up straight and fixed me with a commanding eye. Listen. Are you saying there is a problem with the work that has been done? He lowered his brows as if they were about to charge at me in an attempted goring. I wandered over to another section of wall and fingered a part of the new paper that was already starting to peel off. Yes, I am not happy at all with the work that has been done. When were you going to tell me about the wardrobe? Look, you didn't ask us to do behind the wardrobe and that is that. Wagner made a dismissive chopping motion with his hand. There was a long pause. I gritted my teeth, loudly. Right, out. Job is off. I pointed at the door and waved dismissively with my fingers What? Right fine. I should be charging you for the day's work. Wagner's face was turning the reddish-purple of an anal prolapse. Try it and I will charge you a day's work for having to strip all this shit off. Out. I breathed deep and attempted not to leap forward and tit-punch him. Wagner opened and closed his mouth several times like a goldfish before turning heel and stomping out. I sighed and muttered to myself. Why would I pay someone to do a fucking shitty job when I could do a shitty job myself?
I always knew I would get to use that word. Now I can die happy.
If you suffer from Americanism, that would be a closet
