I’ve been a bit unwell. In related news, I’ve been battling with painting a freshly plastered ceiling. As those of you vastly more familiar with DIY than myself will be aware, you can’t put normal paint directly onto plaster. It’s not entirely clear to me what might happen if you did attempt to do this, but when a builder tells you that kind of thing you imagine that the consequences of disobedience will be grim. Joists buckling, divorce beckoning, lips trembling, that kind of thing. You’re supposed to paint it with paint that’s let down a bit with water, apparently. But of course I know better, and when browsing in Homebase I saw this stuff called “plaster sealer”, which I popped in the trolley, not realising it cost £12 for a small tin, and that a small tin wouldn’t be enough and I’d have to go back and buy another small tin the next day. Anyway, this stuff certainly sealed the plaster effectively, but also made it go a very dark shade of brown. And as those of you vastly more familiar with DIY than myself will be aware, you need to put about 5 cocking coats of white paint over a dark colour in order to completely cover it up. I suspect that the whole thing is just a scam by Dulux to get us to buy more paint, as if a loveable old English sheepdog wasn’t enough.

Anyway, after two days, the fumes were overpowering, and the body – my body, in fact – was aching, through having to apply even and solid pressure via a roller onto a ceiling. It’s a tragic story, isn’t it. The symptoms – weariness, sore throat, blocked sinuses – were identical to a cold, but I blamed the paint fumes. I wasn’t sure whether to have a hot lemon drink or not; you can’t have a hot lemon drink for pleasure, only if you really need one. Anyway, on Monday it turned into a fully fledged cold. But I still think I kind of “caught it” off the paint. In medieval times, people believed strongly that disease came from smells, and they’d take around a fragrant nosegay to protect themselves. Despite centuries of medical advancement, I kind of believe the same thing, except I don’t have a nosegay, so I choose to spray everything with Lynx deodorant. Bom Chicka Wah Wah.

Other than that, not a lot has been happening. I’m transferring old VHS tapes to DVD and joyously flinging the subsequently superfluous VHS in the bin. I went to Sainsburys, and noted that the Angling Times cover story this month/week is “How to Catch Tench”. Oh, and last Friday I went to Andy’s 40th birthday drinks in a real ale pub in Euston. It’s right by the bus stops at the front of the station, and used to be called “Rails”, and used to be a horrible venue where you would play a gig but no-one would come and see you play, despite it having the best transport links of any venue ever known to mankind. No, that doesn’t say anything about the quality of the music, really it doesn’t. Anyway, as it’s a real ale pub it’s not surprising that you’re bombarded with CAMRA literature therein. The Campaign For Real Ale continue to make half-hearted attempts to make real ale appealing to humans who aren’t white, middle aged, male and fat. But these attempts always look ridiculous. For example, they generally advertise the Great British Beer Festival by using an image of an attractive woman, when all the attendees look like Geoff Capes. But this appeal for membership, which morphs a woman’s head into an delicious pint of Arkells Summer Ale, represents a marked shift from the merely inappropriate to the totally disturbing.