Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 13^th November 2005

Let me start by saying ‘Flowers are great!’ They come in an array of vibrant colours, fascinating shapes and sizes, not to mention a myriad of intoxicating scents that captivate and enthral. Now before you think ‘oh aye Hams getting a little light on the loafers’ I’m singing the praises of flowers for a reason. I like flowers (in the garden) they are easy on the eye, provide a reasonably pleasant aroma, conveniently hide the weeds, cat turds (which cats don’t bury by the way) and empty beer cans. But most importantly of all they keep the wasps and bees away from my grub and me.

So garden flowers I’m all for. Painted flowers on the other hand I loathe. Specifically flowers painted on to a wallpaper border. Why? Hmmmm? I mean why the border never mind the fecking flowers. Imagine the scene, your wallpapering a room and you step back to admire your work. Every sheet is ramrod straight, precisely finished top and bottom. Professional decorators couldn’t have made a better job, it’s perfect. At this point you should fix a satisfied smile on your face, down tools, and relax with a well-deserved brew. In other words leave the wallpaper, drop your brush and step away from the wall….

Yet somehow you think it needs finishing? You can’t get rid of the strange nagging feeling that something is missing? (it’s your cerebrum) Here is some free advice, the only thing it needs is to be left well alone. What it certainly doesn’t need is a roll of shiny novelty toilet roll applied liberally across the room at head height. In the name of all that’s unholy what were ye thinking of? That’s like restoring a vintage sports car, respraying it in classic British racing green, rebuilding the original four point six litre engine. Sourcing original wood for the burr walnut dash and rosewood steering wheel, reupholstering the entire interior with blood red leather. It’s in concourse condition and then you put a sticker on the boot saying ‘my other car is a mini’ Thereby giving it that craved for personal touch and also telling the world you are a total dick.

Unfortunately a previous (clearly retarded) owner of my property had seen fit to put up a floral border in the master bedroom, hark at me and my master bedroom, it’s in the West wing you know! Ahem, anyway this border has a repeating pattern of purple roses that look like they have been drawn by a four year old. It is awful and I just couldn’t take it any longer, it had to go. I’d been living in the shed for nearly eight months and winter was coming after all.

I donned my boiler suit and tooled up with wallpaper steamer and pointy scraper thing. You know the one, it’s not quite a triangle, it’s got two sharp straight sides and a wee curved side (for no discernible reason I might add) ‘Right pal’ I mumbled rolling up my sleeves ‘Am gonna sort oot your hash’ The steamer was bubbling away nosily and plumes of white vapour were filling the room ‘Ho ho now we’ll see what yer made of’

I clutched the handle and lifted the head of the steamer, it was hissing and spitting noisily, the pressure was making the rubber hose twitch in my hand ‘be still my beauty’ I mumbled gazing at the drops of crystal clear water dripping off the edges. Which was all very fine until a drop of crystal clear boiling water landed on my forearm ‘Oooh ya bas! Ooyah ooyah oyaah’ I held it out at arms length and rubbed my reddening skin ‘jeeeesus fu-‘

The hose was starting to twitch quite violently now so quickly I pressed the heated square against the border and held it firmly. Puffs of steam escaped from the sides as the heat and moisture saturated the paper. Temporarily forgetting the danger from my ‘B&Q economy stripper’ I started to enjoy myself ‘ha ha ha die border die!’ I cackled. I could see the border crumpling and got to work with my scraper ‘Oh ya beauty’ I laughed as the paper peeled off in great handfuls ‘goodbye minging roses, farewell disgusting flowers’, ‘au revoir scabby-‘, ‘Oh for fu-‘

My glee was short lived for two reasons. The hated roses had indeed peeled off but only to reveal a second border underneath, daffodils this time! But more pressingly my steam stripper was now becoming very difficult to control. Unfortunately I had also filled it to the maximum level giving me a hefty seventy minutes stripping time. This had seemed a strong selling point when I had parted with my £3.99. Now as I rode my bucking bronco steamer hose I was wishing I’d lashed out the extra twenty notes required for one with a safety cut out switch.

‘Woooaaah’ On the plus side the paper was positively falling off. There was no need for the scraper, unfortunately this was all the paper that was falling off not just the border. My feet were starting to get caught up in the reams of curled up wallpaper building up round my boots. Twenty minutes in and I had to use all my weight just to keep the steamer from shooting off the wall. It had already removed all the paper from the room and quite a section of the plaster underneath.

Snivelling I tried to reach down and switch off the steamer but as soon as I took my hand off, the hose started whipping about in my hand. My feet were snared up in paper and completely trapped. I was going to have to wait till it quite literally ran out of steam. The plaster was starting to soften underneath the intense heat and I was beginning to panic. Ok so I was already panicking now I was bricking it. With great effort I managed to slide the steamer head on to a cupboard door, it had to be more resilient than plasterboard? Well possibly if it had been a two-foot thick solid oak door, but as it was another B&Q special it wasn’t long before it started to creak and groan under the strain.

‘I want my mummy’ I whimpered as I remembered my ‘wooden’ door was in fact composed of thinly laminated MDF. Now dissolving under the onslaught of steam. Tears were rolling down my cheeks when I heard the steamer cough and splutter twice, the wriggling hose seemed to lose some fight, glancing down I saw the reservoir was nearly empty ‘Oh thank Christ’ I mumbled. Then fell through the door.

Which in itself wouldn’t have been too bad but only my top half fell through the hole. The lower half of my torso was exposed to a dying jet of steam expelled from the machine as the hose was torn out on my way through the door. Even in it’s death throws it managed to get the last word in!

Boiler suit is quite an appropriate name, anyone for steamed spuds?

Doei