Paint and Patience

A fresh coat of paint on the wall can make an enormous difference in the way one feels about a room. Take for example the Williams’ main living room. For quite some time it was a dingy yellowish colour that made the room seem both too bright and too dark at the same time. One found himself squinting in the darkness as if he were standing in the middle of a campground at night staring into the kind of yellow light bulb that is designed to scare away insects. Naturally, the entire family was exited this past weekend to hear that Mr. Williams had decided to repaint with a colour described by the big orange store as "beach sands." Ceerio darkened sun. Wotcher soft, inviting, neutral beach-tone.

Patience, in my opinion, is a word created to describe the feeling of defeat and helplessness that invariably fills the chest when yeh cannot get what yeh want when yeh want it. Kill it, I say, before it gets comfortable. Therefore I cannot tell yeh much about the painting process because it just takes too long and is horribly boring to watch. Here are the highlights:

• The primer went on.
• Beach sands went on, but no one could tell. Beach sands is apparently a fancy name for more primer. Or to be more poetic, it is the colour of the reflection of light. At this point in the process, the Williams tried desperately to fancy the colour because they had painted the entire room in it, but no one could be sure what the colour was. It was as if yeh could not see the walls because there was always this blinding glary reflection from the light.
• "Oat bran" went on. A noice colour going on to be sure, but one that has the same effect on a wall after a few hours as its namesake has on a colon in the same amount of time.
• Gnashing of teeth.

As of this entry, the oat bran still clings to the walls, mocking Mr. Williams and his patience. Mrs. Williams is at the store choosing the foe that will be round 3. I’m orf to find some snacks and brandy – I think this round could be entertaining.

Banjo

During my brief blogging hiatus, the Williams household took on an extra piehole to feed. It is a sweet enough piehole whilst its owners are about, but leave it alone with a mild mannered butler and it grows sharp fangs and overactive saliva glands.

Sadly, the duplicitous ingrate of a K9 has turned forever against me. Just a couple rounds of “dodge the vacuum” and I hae been forever labeled in the dark mind of the four-legged thingamajig as untrustworthy, un-forgiven. Thou might be tempted to believe that the ill-will radiating from the dog’s blackened soul is due to the fact that it is a sore loser, but thou would be pete tong. I did win the first few rounds, but in the later games it came back to nearly tie the score. It has an unnerving and inexplicable ability to gander in more than one direction at a time and is keenly aware of which way the vacuum might be coming at it – even in the dark.

Anyroad, they named the beast Banjo, which is fitting since its howlings and growlings are as grating on the nerves as its namesake. Incidentally, how can ye tell if there's a banjo player at yer door? They can't find the key, the knocking speeds up, and they don't know when to come in.

Mower Four

Mr. Williams is not what one might ring up “handy.” He seems to dae well enough with intangible graft – logic, persuasion, etc. – but if yeh put sumfink in front of him that requires he touch it… let me just say his 5 year olde son frequently fixes his mistakes. From what I can tell, this is not entirely his fault. There bleedin' well may be some sort of curse upon him that causes these tangibles to rebel against him, quietly sacrificing themselves at his expense. Take for example his experience with lawn mowers. I hae seen him mow his grass many times. (I was originally expected to mow his grass for him as part of our working agreement, but with my chronic toe jam I am sadly unable to fulfill this duty. I typically sit inside under a fan and in front of one of the windows and sip iced rosie whilst he mows. I wave every time he goes by in an effort to encourage the skint lad.) Anyroad, he mows as yeh would expect him to. He doesn’t scapa over much other than the grass. However, in 3 years he has utterly destroyed as many mowers. He is on mower four now. He has gone through only too weed wackers, but this second one is currently held together by duct tape. Oh that I could help him. Curse this toe jam.

Testing, Testing. Is this thing on?

Please allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is William Swilliams Williams, and I fill the position of family butler for the Williams'. In theory, I cook and clean and run the house, but Mrs. Williams is really so organized and over-motivated that I honestly just don’t hae that much to dae. Yeh ’d think I would blog more often. Truth is I hate blogging fancy a dog hates flees, which is why there has been so few (naught ) entries in the last 869 days. If only there was some sort of reward. Perhaps if someone would agree to present me with points towards bottles of brandy for each dickey bird I offer up. Any takers?

And now, after careful consideration - and also after my last semi-annual review in which Mr. Williams pointed out 1) the clause in our agreement where in which I agreed to log the goings on of the Williams household for posterity and reflection, and 2) my sore lack of competence in this particular area –I hae decided to re-begin my blogging with renewed vigor and diligence.

Alert the media. Tell the baked bean. I am about to begin.