the sound of alarms

Lime plaster is pure evile. I cannot take more than an hour or so scraping the stuff from my bedroom walls, especially if the iPod demands that singing along is in order. In addition to the respiratory abuse I wonder about once every ten minutes in a slightly panicky fashion whether I am doing the right thing; and then have to go through the process of reminding myself that a life with purple textured wallpaper is a life half lived. I can't help thinking that the whole thing is going to cost more than a couple of hundred quid, though. Without considering the £350 I've just been quoted to fix the roof. Repeat after me - I love owning my own home. I love owning my own home. I love owning my own home. (I do, though. Really.)

Still - a tip for those of you who may be lucky enough to have the plaster-stripping experience in your future. Do not undertake this task whilst wearing a low v-neck t-shirt. Plaster chips in the bra are neither comfortable nor erotic, whatever you might have heard previously.