Mr Sandman, bring me a dream...

Buying a flat has broadened my horizons. I have spent a Friday evening at DFS (walked away empty handed - I’m not quite ready for a cream leather sofa) and tackled a dead pigeon in the chimney (poked it back up and forgot about it). But the real excitement is DIY. To look on a newly installed bookshelf/toilet roll holder/machine gun emplacement, and say, ‘I did that,’ is a source of pride and satisfaction. Or shame and embarrassment, depending how it goes. Spilling your blood, sweat and tears on the pile of bricks and mortar you are now financially chained to creates a real feeling of ownership. As if by drilling into its masonry and painting its surfaces you are showing it who is in charge. ‘Take that!’ I cry, while fixing a cabinet to the bathroom wall. ‘You are not the boss of me!’

Out with the old

The floorboards in the bedroom had been finished with a deep brown stain by the previous owners. ‘It’ll be nice to paint them,’ we thought. We decided on a calming green. I did my research and set about the project with gusto, starting with hiring heavy duty sanders to strip the boards.

Anyone who has used a floor sander knows it is a beast imbued with satanic power. Once turned on, it revs into life with a screech like a banshee marshalling the forces of darkness. With barely contained fire in its metallic belly the machine tears into floorboards like a starved hyena locked in a cupboard with a zebra foal. These things could smooth out mountain ranges. Without physical restraint it will run away from you, smash through walls as if they’re made of Wotsits and drag you into your neighbours’ lunch. 

No pain, no gain

With ear plugs in and dust mask on, I sweated through 7 hours of back-breaking labour. The edging sander is designed to get in close to skirting boards, and also to cripple human beings. It is about 50cm high and heavy, shuddering with power. To operate, you hold it firmly and lower yourself into a squat. The kind of position you might adopt to strangle someone lying on the floor. From there you shuffle around the room, led by the furious device, feeling the muscles around your spine contracting by the minute. 

As the dust settled and the ringing in my ears subsided, I surveyed my handiwork. The natural beauty of the wood had been revealed once more. I toasted my efforts with a Polish lager and patted the still warm sanders with satisfaction. They glared back at me, red eyes glowing.

The next stage of the project began on a Monday. Painting 16 square metres of floorboard with a brush took two hours and with the sun shining through the window and Wimbledon on Radio 5 Live it was not an unpleasant task. I responded to Claire Balding’s request and Tweeted a photo of myself and the half-painted floor, #mywimbledonseat. I was abused by wood purists, complete strangers who assailed me for ruining ‘those wonderful boards’ with paint. Who knew you could be trolled for home improvements?

#mywimbledonseat

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I applied the green floor paint - thinly, with a brush, allowing 24 hours between coats. With each layer the colour deepened, gradually assuming its final gentle richness.

One step too far

Thoroughness dictated that I should protect the floor with a final coat of clear varnish, to ensure the floor stays lovely for years to come. This stage is not essential but I imagined it would be infuriating to watch paint chip away with use simply because I had not done two more hours work. 

The varnish went on. I cleaned my brushes and left the house. When I returned after several hours the result was not what I had expected. The supposedly clear varnish had dried yellow, like streaks of piss, ruining the paint job. I felt like I was seeing my beloved floor through a pair of those tinted glasses so beloved of perverts and Bono.

‘It must not be fully dry,’ I thought to myself, hopefully. The next morning there was no improvement. If anything, it was worse. 

I showed the result to my girlfriend. I was firmly in the second stage of grief, denial, and reluctant to countenance the notion that it would have to be rectified. It was only by her coaxing that I came to see the truth. The rancid stains would annoy us for as long as we live in the flat. Action had to be taken. 

Destroying a week’s work is not a satisfying experience. The sander ripped through the paint all too easily and at the end of the day I was back where I had started. I was hot, tired and depressed. I made one final pass with the edging sander, removing the last of the green paint. I was jostling the machine close to the skirting boards underneath the radiator when a jet of water shot across the room. The sander’s spinning disc had sliced through the copper pipe sticking out of the floor. In panic, I shouted to my girlfriend.

‘Can you come here now please!’

She ran like a paramedic to a train crash. Perhaps the sander has ripped off his arm, she thought. It was much worse than that. After blasting brown liquid onto the freshly painted walls, the pressure had subsided somewhat but water was still flowing freely, soaking the floor. We relayed the mop bucket and washing up basin back and forth, emptying them into the bath, until the leak reduced to dribble, and then stopped.

All above board

The plumber came the next day, repairing the damage in exchange for wads of cash. Once dry, apart from the spots of paint lurking in gaps inaccessible to even the ravenous floor sander, the bare wood looked as good as the first time. I bought some quick-drying varnish, non-yellowing, and put on three coats in a day. Now it’s done and I will not touch the floor again, even if a priceless hoard of Viking treasure is tracked to the recess beneath it.

I have climbed a steep learning curve, with the occasional dramatic slip to keep things interesting. Thanks to the energy expended the flat does feel more like a home. I Tweeted a picture of the varnished boards to the stranger who had mocked me for vandalising them. He didn’t reply, but I know he’s out there, chuckling smugly.