Four weeks in and we were starting to get cocky.
In the World’s Biggest Room, husband was just finishing his third coat of brilliant white, bravely battling through a case of snow blindness. When a tiny crack appeared above his head, he gently rolled over it again, not sure he could believe his eyes. “It feels like an air bubble,” he said bemusedly.
In a matter of seconds, as shards of plaster the size of saucers were raining down on husband’s head. I laughed hysterically (emphasis on the hysterics), until I saw him welling up.
“Oh god, are you hurt?” I asked.
“I just painted that —king ceiling three times,” he growled.
Six hours later, and Jack was both scratching his chin and whistling his teeth at the same time (never a good sign).
“It’s because it wasn’t stripped enough,” he said wisely. “You stripped this one,” he said to hubby. “Too much chalk left, plaster didn’t stick. Got to do it again.”
“Can’t we just patch up the hole?” I asked hopefully.
“Hmm,” said Jack, jumping up on his gantry. “I don’t think you could trust the rest of it.”
With that he dug the edge of the stripper underneath the plaster still attached to the ceiling. Nothing happened. He attacked it more enthusiastically, until another chunk smashed on the floor. “See?” he said triumphantly. “You’ll have to take it all off, re-strip it and then I’ll replaster it.”
“And then I get to repaint it,” I heard husband mutter.