Magpie Tales#78

The Writing's on the Wall

   When I moved into Zack's rented flat Mum said "You mean you and Zack are engaged?"  "No, Mum, it doesn't work like that anymore." Seeing her doubtful look, I said "We'll probably get married eventually. But not straightaway or anything. We've our Ph.D theses to finish."  

   The flat wasn't too bad except for the bedroom, which was done out in a 1960's wallpaper with huge yellow, orange and white flowers, so loud you could almost hear them. Certainly loud enough to give us insomnia. I guessed the paper had been up for forty years, but Zack said no, he'd found five rolls of the stuff in a cupboard when he moved in. With his then girl friend he'd scraped off earlier layers, one of which was Victorian, dark green and varnished. "Hell of a job," he said, "took absolute ages." Then they pasted up the Garden of Delights. "Kind of retro. We liked it. At first."

   So we got busy. Day One, we bought stripping knives, scrapers and a stepladder. We hired a steam stripper, a magic piece of kit. On Day Two I was up the ladder peeling off flowery grot I'd previously steamed.  Sometimes a whole width just about fell off the wall, a satisfying feeling, denuding several square metres in no time leaving bare plaster ready for white emulsion.  The piece in the corner next to the door was coming away nicely when I stopped, glanced at Zack who, gallant as ever was attacking some remaining bits of the green varnished stuff at skirting board level. So he didn't see me roughly manhandle the falling flowers back onto the wall and hold them there one-handed.

  "Zack love, what happened to the friend who helped you strip?'

  He dropped his scraper.

  "The paper, Zack. Strip the old paper. When you stuck up this ghastly stuff."

  "For a minute I thought you meant - We didn't really get on. Didn't last long after we finished the room."

  "Why?" I wanted to know, looking down on him from my perch, pressing my lips together not to laugh.

  "We were, like, incompatible."

  "In what way?"

  "Truth to tell,"he said, "she was about as much fun as a dead sheep. Why the sudden interest?"

  "Just that I imagined her up here where I am, erm . . helping you." I said, then, "Right! Nearly finished this lot. Time for a coffee."

   I took one last look. Right at the top of the wall where I had just dislodged another bunch of the horrible flowers, someone had written in pencil, in very small caps that I scratched out with my scraper in case he should see  -

  'MOST WALLPAPERS ARE BETTER HUNG THAN YOU, ZACKO!'  

  Nice one from a dead sheep!


(This is just one of many responses to Tess Kincaid's wonderful picture prompt this week.  You can find the others HERE)