A friend came round for a drink last night to help me relax after a weekend of decorating. I was wearing a velvet skirt. “You haven’t been painting in that have you?” she said. Remarkably, no. I’d worn old clothes and showered before she arrived, removing most of the badger-stripe from my hair. And the splodge up my nose, possibly related to answering the phone holding a loaded paintbrush. Decorating unleashes an anarchic streak in me. With a test pot in hand, common sense vanishes. It was pregnancy-induced lunacy that led to the ghastly Germolene pink room I’ve been trying to paint over. Homebase should perform a public service, banning hormonally unstable pregnant women from buying the stuff: “Step away from the colour chart, lady”. If someone had distracted me with a plate of buns, I would not have been left with a three-coat cover-up job now (including the ceiling, what was I thinking, and how did I manage it seven months gone?). And whilst I appreciate, in theory, the value of a calm, methodical approach, it’s never going to happen. I’ve been known to paint around furniture. My dad showed me how to apply gloss once. The workspace was neat. He’d already cleaned, rubbed down, and applied undercoat. Small amount on the brush. Slow, careful strokes. I watched attentively. Then did what I always do: overloaded the paintbrush and slapped paint around like a dervish, speckling everything within a six foot radius. You’d understand it if I was five years old. I was fifteen. At least the cats have learned sense. Last time one ended up scampering round the house with pink-painty paws after walking in the roller tray. Now they lay low until the last whiff of meths has gone.