Why painting walls is like writing drafts – and why it’s progress, not perfection, that matters

My husband Frank and I have bought a house together (for the very first time!) and been doing it up (also for the very first time!).

It’s a Victorian terrace which has needed a bit of love. In other words: we’ve* been stripping wallpaper, sanding and painting (and Zinssering – iykyk) walls, pulling up carpets and smashing open fireplaces. We’ve had the house fully rewired, our chimney newly flaunched, and we’ve learned what the word ‘flaunched’ means. We’ve put a log burner in one of the aforementioned smashed-open fireplaces, installed a new bathroom (during which our plumber discovered tiles upon tiles – literally), and created a new partition wall with pocket doors. Pocket doors!! I can tell you now that those long winter nights are going to fly by, mainly because I’ll just be standing by this archway, sliding doors in and out of it:

In short: the summer has been filled with a fascinating, time-consuming, fulfilling and at times slightly stressful project, and I’ve never used so much hand cream in my life.

The whole experience has also been an excellent reminder of an adage I’ve told myself (and fellow writers, and fellow recovering people-pleasers) numerous times: that ‘perfect is the enemy of good’. Or indeed, the enemy of done.

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