The Little Things (c) by Michael Casey

The Little Things ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was thinking what shall I write next, or shall I say what will  I write next, I’ll let Esol students fight over will and shall. It has been a couple of days since I spoke to you last. So what have we been up to in the Casey house?

We have been tidying up the house, just small little things, a bit of paint here and a splash of paint there, mainly over my clothes. As I write this I remember a piece called “Michael’s Bathroom” I’ll dig that out and post it next to this. But paint really does make a different, “that’s a nice tidy job” my dad used to say. So what did I paint? I badly painted the wall under the bay window. It looks as white as American film stars bleached teeth.

I blame our next door neighbour, she had a new front door so our house looked shabby by comparison. MY daughter also nagged me. So as we had a bit of paint left over  I painted under  the window, as well as the front door step. It made a big difference, just a lick of paint and hey presto the house has a smile.

It started 2 weeks ago when we accosted the builder over the road, we needed gutters fixing after the 3 months of the coldest winter in 50 years. The Indian builder was great, he jumped at the extra bit of work and did a tidy job as my dad would say. Only at the back of the house the new gutter showed up the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So like greased lightning I dug out the paint from the corner of the kitchen on the floor by the washing machine and started to paint. Only there was a problem, I did not have a paint brush anywhere, not even in the old bread pin under the sink where we keep various rubbish. The bread bin was actually the one we had when I was a child so it must be 50 years old now. It had no bread in it nor paint brushes.

So what do you do, you improvise, I’ve been a concierge and a night shift worker in a computer room, so I know how to improvise. I just stole one of my daughter’s art painting brushes and used that instead. This idea was great because it meant I could reach further as I painted the new wooden board that the new gutter was attached to. Then I went on to paint the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So hey presto the back of the house looked good. Then the Little Englander as my Shanghai wife has become decided to attack the grass, all my snowmen have since melted away. So marching behind her favourite toy, the lawnmower, she gave the grass a short back and sides. It’s so good now we may even have a bowling match on the grass. In fact it reminds me of the patch of grass that’s in the grounds of the Irish Pub in Shanghai, perhaps that’s where my own Shanghai girl got her inspiration from.

We also have a gate on our entry, I paid for it 20 years ago, this gate looked dull and faded and had no personality, a friend made that same joke about me some time ago, I’m smiling as I think about it. So again I attacked the gate with left over paint. I had bought some brushes by then, 99p for 5 brushes from the Plastic Shop up the road. Painting is very soothing and I’m not talking about inhaling the fumes either. It’s the satisfaction of seeing something dull come back to life. Mick Jagger could not get any satisfaction because he did not know how to paint an entry gate.

So all in all we have painted front and back and got our village green pocket garden grass back to nice looking again. As for my clothes, that’s another matter. I was wearing old clothes, 11year old green trousers, the trousers I wore when I had my Crowne Plaza NEC training. I tell you this to prove that I’m the same size after 11years, though the wife does not believe me. I am a large size person after all, that is how I’m viewed by my Shanghai Little Englander wife. Though I have to admit she is great with a lawn mower, even if she always cuts up my wild Shamrock, but they always grow back.

As for my clothes, I didn’t really get too much paint on them, though the entry itself has been baptised in paint, but nobody sees it as the door is always locked. I just noticed I’ve reached 800 words, am I turning into Ronnie Corbett, a tangent of a tangent, perhaps I should write for him.

Little things do matter as Ronnie Corbett will testify, but why do they matter? My mum cried when we broke a pink wooden coat hanger, her own mother had given it to her when she left for England in 1944, that’s why she cried. A bit of paint is nothing in itself, but it can change our view of our own homes. The street where I live is looking upgraded just because of a bit of paint here and there.

What about ourselves? I had a debate with a friend over presentation, not just of words but of self. Something one person hates another can love, it may be something our mum gave us, or we may be so poor that’s why we wear things to destruction. I sent a video clip of me reading my stuff to somebody and as its Summer I’m in my favourite orange Polo. Now will the person be listening to my words or just hating my Polo, or loving both. I’d don’t really know the answer to that, yet.