All Visitors Must Wear A Hard Hat.

I don't do do-it-yourself. I get in a lather. Especially in the bathroom.
My bathroom used to have a ceiling, now, on account of numerous mishaps, bad management and laziness I'm compelled to wear a helmet and rubber trousers on entry.

It all started out normal enough, a bit of a dripping from the radiator, a crack in the ceiling and a succession of cats destroying me best thick linoleum, but what really turned a once pretty spring like washing area into an ugly Armaggedon was Peter the evil Plumber.

One day the cold tap on the sink wouldn't turn, so being a bit of a tom-boy I decided to have a go meself. I tried Vaseline, Olive Oil, WD 40 and Fairy Liquid. Nope, not a hope, so eventually I slapped on me Anti-Wrinkle cream, didn't get it going just made it look smoother.
So I got Peter in.

After a couple of expensive hours he not only managed to bleat on about every conceivable subject under the sun but managed to work up a little sweat drinking tea and demolishing me coconut fancies. He finally, after much munching and moaning replaced my sweet little cold tap with a brute of a tap.
He left considerably richer and fatter while I sat on the edge of the bath poor skinny and fuming.
From that day on things went from bad to badder, because I think Peter not only brought his extreme right wing views along with his spanners, but a tool belt full of evil bad luck too!

But there was one happy clean soul in the Horsehound household.
That soul being the great and brainy Mr Horsehound, who, feeling mightily chuffed with the tap of hate, then decided the crack in the ceiling needed attending to.
Oh, dear, oh deary deary me.

Never in the history of do-it-yourself has one man managed to make such a monumental cock-up. He did try bless him, and every fragrant weekend there he was, up his big ladder with pots of white stuff. Jolly good I thought to meself when he started on the first day, but then as it went into its third semester I began to lose the will to live, cook and wash.

It did not go up or in or stay put or set or dry or whatever it was that was supposed to happen.
It just fell onto his misbegotten head.
I like grey haired men, but not ones who look like horrible workmen. I just don't do sole traders.

Anyway I digress, one day as he was patting on some more white stuff I said "Leave it dear, you've had a go, I'll cover the ceiling with pictures by Michelangelo
With that he limped off his ladder and read a book about Aliens.

The lino is striated and scarred.The taps are stiffening up again. The radiator is waiting for someone to take care of it. And the ceiling is hanging by a thread.

I once had a verdant green spring-like bathroom it's now an oxidzed autumnal skip.
Bit like me.
Rusting but still dripping. But oh, how my new blue curtains hang defiantly.