April 7: Paint Fumes

I've got a painter round. She is perfectly nice. Local Bristol lass. Climbs ladders. Leans over steep stairs. Dangles from light-shades to reach the tricky bits. Two problems. She charges per day. But leaves at 3.30pm. In whose eyes exactly is that a day's work? The other problem. She stinks. Fags. A lingering but intense smell of cigarettes. She doesn't smoke when she's here. I've not seen her anyway. But she walks in reeking of the things. When I take a swig of my tea, and bite into my toast, I breath in her fumes. It's got so bad, I'm lighting vanilla-flavoured candles as if in a shrine. Perhaps I'll give her one as a present when she leaves. Say - as she does - 'ere luv, 'av a candle. U stink, in it. Alright luv.