The estate agent led us through a lovely garden, up a short flight of steps and into the entrance hall.
The orange will have to go, I said to Waldo.
Oh, I don’t know, he said, I rather like it.
Hmph, we’d see about that. I walked down the passage and glanced into the bedrooms. Three of them, quite nicely sized. The walls varying shades of orange: tangerine, mango, butternut. Nothing a coat of nice, clean white paint couldn’t fix.
Back in the living room, Waldo was asking if the owner would drop her price. It’s a deceased estate, she said, poor woman died shortly after her husband. Evidently had a dizzy turn in the shed whilst painting and fell off the ladder.
Waldo gave me a hard time about the paint, but eventually I just went out and bought it myself, while he was away on a business trip and got right down to work. I donned some overalls and got the groundsheet spread out in the hall. By lunchtime most of the space was painted and I reckoned I could take a short break and then carry on and finish the passage before the end of the day.
I had a glass of milk with my cheese sandwich and rinsed the dishes. As I looked out of the kitchen window, I noticed a very interesting piece of wood lying near the garage and went out to take a look. How quaint, it seemed like some kind of sculpture, a carving. It would look really great against my white hall walls. I’d bring it in when the paint was dry.
Back in the entrance hall, I let out a scream. The white paint had all disappeared and the walls were back to their pristine orange.