It baffles me how the British call the practice of painting the interior of a house, “decorating”. Where I come from, we call that “painting”. You decorate cakes, Christmas cookies, brave soldiers… but walls?

I first heard this word on BBC’s Changing Rooms circa 1999, when Rhiannon and I subscribed to cable and lost entire weekends to the Lifestyle Channel. Linda Barker and Laurence Llewelyn Bowen were so exotic, if not a bit colour blind. They called it “emulsion” instead of paint. Somehow that made their MDF-encrusted designs seem far superior to those on the Australian version of the show.

But now that I actually live in the land of Handy Andy, I refuse to Decorate with poncy Emulsion. WE PAINT WITH PAINT, dammit.

Gareth and I have begun the tedious process of tarting up our flat. We started in 2005 with the spare bedroom then abandoned the project due to lack of interest. But now we have the fancy Shower! everything else looks really scabby.

Doing DIY on the weekend feels so grown-up and depressing. The next step is matching fleeces and Midsomer Murders and the general End of Fun. I’ve heard of people painting their houses and going on to experience enjoyment in their lives, but it still feels like a slippery slope.

It’s going alright so far. I accidentally walked through the paint tray and trekked paint through the flat then Gareth’s roller disintegrated and distributed pube-like debris all over the ceiling, but that seemed more productive than last time when he knocked a five-litre paint tin off the ladder and coated himself, ceiling and carpet in Dulux Buttermilk.

My problem is a tendency to stand around waiting for instructions instead of getting stuck into the work. Once again I must attribute this to the Mothership as she used to tell me I was too messy to help with the painting. Instead I had to be her Roller Slave. She’d stand on a bar stool to paint the high bits, and when the roller ran dry she’d hold it out without even looking at me, and issue the snooty command, “LOAD!”

I’d put more paint on the roller and pass it back up so she didn’t have to get off the chair and do it herself. Most times she’d hand it straight back, declaring it to be coated with too much or not enough paint. “RELOAD!” And how my whole body would twitch with the urge to paint over her eyeballs.

Dearly beloveds! Over on Dietgirl I’ve running a fanbloodytastic photo Scavenger Hunt contest. There’s ten copies of my book to be won, hot off the presses!

There’s also a bonus Grand Prize for the most creative entry. Forgive the pimpery but it’s not really pimping if you’re giving it away for FREE, is it? I know there are some mighty talented and imaginative folks out there, so why not give it a red hot go :)

Intriguing Nickname of the Day: Bloke sitting beside me on train today answers his phone, "Hiya Shandy Tits!"

. . .

FATHER-IN-LAW:  Gareth, I need Shauna's mobile number.
GARETH:  Why?
FATHER-IN-LAW:  So I can text her to tell her that I got her email.
GARETH:  Why don't you just reply - och, never mind.

. . .

I tell you what's creepy - jumpers with faux shirt collars attached to them. Because it's just soooo much effort to put a real shirt on underneath, isn't it. I saw this one, entitled "Phillippa", in Monsoon the other day and her disembodied collar made me shiver. What if they turned up the heating at work and you whipped off your top, forgetting about the fakery and giving your colleagues an eyeful?

. . .

We now have a SHOWER! Gareth and his pal Steve built it with their own two hands. Four hands, actually. After three years of washing my hair with a mug of water and not once even remotely bitching about it I can now rinse with dazzling speed and accuracy. Everyone keeps saying, "Ooh I bet you're under there for hours now" but I still can't bring myself to stay longer than a few minutes. If I dare indulge in anything more than a brief dampening of the limbs, I expect The Mothership to pound on the door, "Get out of that bloody shower, there's a drought on!"