Painting. 


The uninteresting picture is my hall. I live in an older traditional flat with high ceilings.
I started painting it in 2014 probably, putting samplers on the wall and buying the tub of paint.

Yeah it’s 2017 now, I still haven’t finished all the high bits. I can reach so far standing on a stool.

I’m not great at decorating, I do what I can. I had a kick on earlier this year when my rack, that I hung jackets and shirts from, fell off the wall one weekend.

It’s not a huge room, it’s not a difficult thing to do, I’ve did it in fits and starts, making the most progress in 2017. 

Some in January, some in March, some in May, some in August.

It’s how I am, I’ve had days off and went to the pub, I’ve spent time with the kids, I’ve dog sat. I’ve worried over PIP and money and I’ve sometimes just sat and been online or watching TV.

In my head is a scheme to improve how I live. 

I unplugged my sky box that I don’t need or use yesterday. Another day, I’ll put it in the cardboard box that it came in.

I got a new plastic dish drainer for my kitchen months ago. I’ll get around to actually placing it beside the sink and throwing out the old one.

It’s psychological. I want to. I know I should. That creates pressure and anxiety and worry. 

I can do the things I need to do with the kids, I buy food and eat it, I can manage the washing machine to ensure I have clean clothes for work, I can do my daily cycle.

Beyond that? Nope. 

Getting aluminium stepladders or a small ‘A’ shape thing to do the painting of the upper bits of that wall properly is a one hour walk to and from the DIY store. I could easily do that after work one day.

Most days after work, I need to decompress after people and the train and just an average day. I want my work clothes off and to eat.

I can’t and don’t ask for help. I don’t want to be seen to struggle and I don’t want to annoy anyone. 

I focus on my day to day and the kids, beyond that is a struggle.

I’m not unique and probably not alone in this, it’s matter of the mind, rather than a matter of actually being able to do it.

It’s frustrating and annoying and it’s imperfect. Not a good thing to live in and not perfect or normal.

I can say to myself that it’s ok, that it’s my ‘normal’ and think about how I live and the marginal changes that I can make. 

That’s what I do and it’s a random half hour of determination and motivation that gets me to pick up the brush and do that bit more.

When it happens again I don’t know, a weeknight I feel ok, a Saturday night when the kids are asleep.

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