Ceiling

It stands before me, an off white space that stretches out as far as the eye can see.  A great snowy expanse like a winter scene, a Bruegel perhaps but not the colour of freshly fallen virgin snow, no, the colour of snow that lies by the roadside, dirty, grey and faded.  I am standing on my ladders flecked with the scars of previous battles, all colours, all hues including brilliant white with my weapon of choice, a four inch long bristled brush.  The task lies before me.  I cannot lie, painting is not my game, not my forte but I am up for the challenge.  I’m psyched up, pumped up, primed up and ready to go as I dip my brush into the unblemished surface of the newly opened tin of emulsion.

White, brilliant white, silk not matt, heavy and thick like cream, it fills my brush and I drag it along the discoloured surface.  The difference is immediate, a stark contrast between the old and the new.  The streak of fresh paint is like a scar, a cicatrice against the faded flesh of the old ceiling, a white birth mark against a tanned skin.

And now I’m in to it, drawing great arcs on the ceiling, dabbing, swirling, touching up and cutting in.  My lungs are filled with the damp smell of emulsion and I’m eating up the metres, transforming the drab, tired and dull into the fresh and vibrant and clean.  Up and down, side to side being careful not to overstretch myself I make my way from one side of the room to another.  I have a system.

Fifteen minutes have gone and I’m flagging.  I cannot keep up the pace.  My hand is cramped, the handle of the brush is making a blister in my palm and my shoulder is on fire with the exertion.  I get down from my ladders, mop the sweat off my brow and compare the feeble bit I have completed with the vast part that remains ahead.  It’s too early to stop for a cup of tea.

The sun streams in through the open windows and the curtains are billowing in the breeze that at least brings in some fresh air.  It’s so bright now that I cannot make out what I’ve down and what I haven’t.  It’s like snow blindness but I press on, deeper and deeper into the job and ever further away from my point of departure.

The middle bit is behind me and suddenly the end is in sight.  The brilliant white tide is gradually coming in over the remaining drab sand-bar which gets smaller and smaller until, with the last flick of the brush the job is completed.  I turn round to admire my work and where I once had a white ceiling I now have the very same thing.  In a week the smell will have gone and I will have forgotten all about the strain and effort until it is time to pick up the brush again.

Painting a ceiling is such a meaningless and thankless task.