Obsessed with Paint

I spend half my evenings painting at the moment, which is probably not unusual for someone whose just bought a house. In the absence of anything more interesting to write about, I offer you this observation for your consideration.

There's something special about a new pot of paint. Maybe it's the crisp label, unblemished and unfrayed. Maybe it's the absence of drips running down the side of the can. Perhaps its the perfect unbent shiny lid and the clean rim, unspoilt by stray dribbles of paint. Whatever it is, like a new book, the effect only lasts until it's opened, after which it never looks so immaculate again.

Now that I'm a father-of-one with a mortgage, I haven't got the time or money for books, so it looks like my bookowning obsession has transferred itself to paint, which isn't necessarily a bad thing as I have to buy it anyway. Or possibly I'm developing an obsessive compulsive disorder in the style of David Beckham and I'll soon be arranging the beer bottles in my fridge in perfect lines, labels forward. I've already done it with the pots of paint.

Life in New Zealand then, carries on uneventfully.