If Michelangelo can paint a ceiling, then I surely could do the bedroom? – Susan Morrison

Susan Morrison takes matters into her own hands after the Yorkshire husband proves immune to subtle hints about redecorating.

It took Michelangelo four years to paint the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling – but who kept him in sugary tea and biscuits? (Picture: Fotopress/Getty Images)

Despite a fairly heavy duty campaign of subtle hints I finally realised that my husband was not going to repaint the bedroom. Why I thought he would respond to hinting is a complete mystery to me, since Yorkshiremen seem particularly resistant to mild suggestions and work much better with direct commands.

What’s even more mystifying is that this is something I learned years ago when I abandoned saying those wily womanly things like “Would you like to go out for dinner?” or “Shall we look at holiday ideas?” in favour of “Table’s booked at 6 and we’ve hired a motorhome to drive around California”.

Yorkshiremen like clarity. So why I thought he’d realise the bedroom needed redecorating just because I’d told him to buy a massive bucket of lavender-shaded paint is a mystery to me. What did he think we were going to do with it? Use it as a side table?

Yes, I could have just issued a command like Pope Julius II barking an order to Michelangelo to get a move on and finish the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but I thought, right, how hard can this be? It’s just throwing paint on a wall, for heaven’s sake. I’ve seen blokes at work. I’ll get the ladders out, make sure my radio is turned up super loud and stop every hour or so to drink tea with six sugars and eat my way through the biscuit tin.

Turns out, of course, that those highly trained fellas know exactly what they are doing. They work with effortless ease whilst singing along to Beyoncé, they need that tea to remain hydrated, and they get the job done neatly.

Most of my paint got on the wall. A remarkable amount went on my denims. They were actually my favourite jeans, but some of us were too thick to change into a pair of sloppy ones. A fair amount of paint managed to go all over the ladders. There was enough on my face to make me look like a member of the SAS camouflaging themselves to carry out a daytime assault on Barbie’s penthouse. How did paint get on the back of my knees, inside my jeans? I can assure you, I was fully clothed. I leave that painting in the buff malarky to the likes of Jackson Pollock, who, I understand, occasionally stripped off to work. Probably to save his favourite jeans.

It is, however, complete. Two coats. And a catering cost of only three mugs of tea, four digestive biscuits and a Tunnocks Caramel Log. Pretty cheap, I thought, although I do admit I am measuring up for a new carpet.

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