After sanding floorboards for two days I became even more demented than usual.
The hand sander was the exact right size to make it horribly arduous but just about possible to do the entire downstairs floor this way, and so I persisted even when I should have given up and hired a large machine.
By the time I had sanded seven boards I had started to mildly hallucinate. What was the keeper thinking, leaving me with a Black & Decker ‘Mouse’ while he went on holiday? I suppose he wanted to tie me up with a job that couldn’t lead to decapitation or electrocution until he got back.
The Mouse is so called, I presume, because after using it to sand floorboards for two days your right hand becomes a shrivelled little paw, pink and floppy, unable to grip or lift so much as a cup of coffee.
The sound was the worst thing: at first I thought it was saying ‘wah wah waaaaah!’ like a really cross baby, but after a while it became clear it was imitating a violent drunk wandering through the town centre at night screaming obscenities at people with nice lives.
I knew how it felt. After an hour, I was so in tune with its violent whining I had the distinct impression I might have knocked back a bottle of meths.
My head was spinning, my limbs were throbbing, and the boards I had done looked only a half-shade lighter than they had been before. The floor is utterly black with grime where the builder boyfriend dragged, with an old dog lead, hundreds of camel tubs full of rubble and earth over them to get it all through the house.
It seems like an eternity ago, and it makes me question my tenuous grip on sanity to think that this actually happened.
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