Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 1^st May 2006

‘Then you just pull the brush down to expel any bubbles underneath’ I watched as Mrs Shanks demonstrated the technique, she had clearly done this before, very professional. She finished off with an accomplished flick of the wrist ‘There’ she stood back to admire her work ‘Now you have a lovely smooth and straight piece of wallpaper’ I stared in awe at the perfect positioning. Mumbling and touching my fingers, I repeated my new papering mantra ‘Paste, lift, hang, brush, paste, brush, hang, lift’, ‘Now, do you think you can manage the rest?’, ‘Oh aye, nae bother’ I nodded enthusiastically. She raised her eyebrows ‘no honestly; I can do this’ I repeated. Reluctantly she handed over the brush ‘Well if you need any help I’ll be next door preparing the spare room’, ‘I’ll be fine, leave this to me’.

You may have read about my previous decorating exploits at my older brothers house up North (Stallig 13) I’d done my painting apprenticeship and now it was time to move on to wallpapering. My girlfriend was redecorating the upstairs bedrooms in her house, and being the kind man that I am, I’d offered to help. Watching her hang the first piece of paper, I couldn’t see what the fuss was about. There weren’t even any fancy patterns to match up. How hard could it be!

‘Ok Ham, start with the pasting’ I unfurled a roll of paper; the free end immediately curled up and sprang back in my face ‘mmnnfgg’ simultaneously the heavy part rolled off the end of the table, skiting and tumbling out the door. I was pulling the paper from my baldy heid when Mrs Shanks appeared with the rest of the roll ‘So soon?’ she murmured wearily ‘it’s ok, it’s ok, I just dropped it’ She placed the roll back on the table, shook her head, and walked out. My face flushed with anger and embarrassment and I glared at the offending cylinder, pointing a shaking finger ‘right ye fecker, nae mair of yer shite!’.

Grabbing it firmly in one hand I pulled a length of paper out and held it at arms length. Lifting my right leg up on to the table I forced the springy end down. Gradually I turned the roll until I had the required length laid out ‘Ha ha ye’ll have to get up pretty early to catch out old Ham..- ’ It was at this point I realised the paste pot was now out of reach ‘Oh for fu-‘. A bolt of inspiration struck me. I leaned forward until my forehead was now against the thick end. This released my left hand and with a modicum of groaning and grunting I managed to grasp the brush with my fingertips ‘Ha Ha’. A few quick dollops of wallpaper paste were enough to tame the rebellious rag.

Suitably drenched in paste it was now time to proceed to phase 2 : Hanging. I’d even had the foresight to position the steps correctly so all I had to do was ascend a couple of rungs and apply the paper. Carefully I aligned the sheet so it was adjoining the original and sitting perfectly straight. I pulled the brush from my back pocket ‘Now I just pull the brush down’ the paper was going on beautifully ‘to expel any bubbles an-‘ Six inches from the bottom there was a muckle great lump under the paper. My jaw dropped when I saw the source ‘ooooh shiiiiit’. One of the cats had been playing in the paper cuttings. It was about to discover that it’s tail was tethered to the wall.

Very slowly I placed the brush on the ground. The cat was still batting a piece of paper about and oblivious to it’s new binding ‘Oookay kitty you just carry on playing with that while I gently-‘, ‘MEEEIOW!!’, ‘sshh shh there there there it’ll be alrighOOOWWW’, ‘Ya wee bast-‘, ‘everything alright dear?’, ‘aye, fine fine’ I replied shrilly.

The cat wasn’t happy, understandable given the circumstances. One minute you’re toying with a paper ‘mouse’ gleefully practicing the best way to torment another creature to its death, and the next, some big baldy fanny has glued you to a wall. Lets be honest, that’s going to grate. Unfortunately being a raging, spitting, razor sharp ball of fur wasn’t making my job of releasing it any easier.

I reasoned that as I couldn’t get close enough to peel the paper away gently the only option was to whip the sheet off quickly. In the manner of an elastoplast if you like. Okay so I would have to rehang the sheet of wallpaper, but it seemed churlish to complain considering the plight of this poor animal ‘Okay Ham, it’s cruel to be kind’, ‘cruel to be kind’ I whispered as I gripped the end of the sheet with both hands ‘on the count of three’, ‘one’ my muscles tensed ‘two’ I splayed my feet to get a good platform ‘three!’, ‘WHOOSHAAAARRRGHHHH!’

The flaw in my logic was not anticipating the adhesive powers of wallpaper paste. Rather than whipping quickly off the cats fur, with the possible loss of a few hairs. The cat remained firmly attached to the paper as I pulled it upwards. This meant of course that at the end of the wrenching motion, when my hands were on either side of my face, the enraged feline was now at eye level. Not one to miss an opportunity it latched itself on to my phizog in the manner of one of Sigourney Weavers Aliens ‘Anngmmpffaarggh’

The plan was partially successful, in that the cat was no longer stuck to the wall. On the downside it was now stuck firmly to my face and turning my cheeks into steak tartar. Blindly I flailed around the room ‘Need any help dear?’ came a voice from the next room. ‘Mmpffgalrightaarggh’. Fumbling on the floor I managed to grasp the brush. It had a reasonably stout wooden handle and I felt now was the time for drastic measures. I was losing a lot of blood and I needed to remove the beast sooner rather than later. With one quick blow it was all over……

Admittedly it would have been better if I’d hit the cat rather than my own forehead, but I was unsighted at the time. Keeling slowly backwards like a felled Oak I hit the papering table square in the centre. The cat decided it wanted to save one of it’s nine lives after all and had the foresight to flee on the way down, pausing just long enough to rip a final chunk of flesh from my face before nailing a perfect four point landing. The table quickly folded into its requisite halves giving me a final box on the ears as I slumped into unconsciousness. The last thing I remember is the vision of the paste pot arcing its way down towards my bloodied face, the sound of the door opening and the shrieks from Mrs Shanks as she surveyed the carnage.

Back to the painting for me I think, I know my limits …….