Trouble in the White House

Rather like the ludicrous assertion that drinking a warm cup of tea on a hot summer's day is a really good way to quench your thirst, the claim that you'll enjoy a bit of house painting once you get started is a country mile from the truth.

I've spent the last few days turning the walls white and the air blue in a small village house near Malaga. With a brush in my hand and a childlike optimism in my heart, it was a classic example of the triumph of hope over experience, because I really should know by now that I'm innately rubbish at this kind of thing.

To be fair, the preamble was pretty good. I had all the gear laid out before me - rolls of tape, plastic sheets, rags, rollers, trays, a selection of pots and stirring sticks - but it all went a bit downhill after that. My first mistake was to employ the roller which made only patchy headway where painting the wall was concerned but didn't disappoint when it came to providing me with a rather fetching array of white freckles. I should have taken the hint when two neighbours passed by in short succession, not long after I'd started, both chuckling and saying the same thing: you'd be better off using a brush.

The next day, I did just that and, sure enough, actually started to see some progress. This was a doddle. It was time to whistle a merry tune as successful painting people seem so often to do. Not so fast. No sooner had I puckered up my lips and launched into a pleasantly jaunty rendition of A Whiter Shade Of Pale, than disaster struck. The old paint I was painting over began to flake. Zikes! What's a man supposed to do when things don't go to plan? Maybe artificial intelligence could help? In the end I plumped for some real intelligence and phoned Paco, local handyman and all round good egg.

“Paco! Help! Help! The house is falling down!”

He arrived a bit later with a scraper in his hand and proceeded to remove all the old paint that was causing the problem and, if I'm honest, most of my new paint. It was back to square two.

Three days later, it was over, or at least I thought it was. Paco had other ideas - he told me that it was now time for the important bit: the 'retoques' (touch-ups). It soon became clear that this involved me walking around the house with a pot of paint, a brush and a glazed expression playing a game of whack-a-mole that looked likely to last for the rest of eternity. Luckily, Paco arrived pursing his lips and nodding his head which was code for 'it's not going to get much better than that, so you might as well leave it now.'

I was parched and it was very hot. Cold beer or warm tea? Difficult one that.

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