Saving up my nickels to see this.

We play touch rugby, biff the swing and hunt the Meerkat but eventually there's no escaping the fact it's painting time. Down to the laundry room with Wilf to 'liberate' clothing left behind by the various cost centres. A pair of slightly snug cargo shorts and a pair of navy blue Croks are quickly liberated. Then, to finish off, a dark green sweat shirt that's clearly seen better days. Ideal for the job in hand. 'Whoaaa !', I exclaim when slipping it on. It's huge. I'm going to save up my nickels and pay to go and see whoever this thing was made for. Imagine the Governor of California on steroids (as if) then multiply by two and you're getting close to the size of the guy who originally wore this. The hem and the arms hang way down below my knees giving the whole ensemble, and me, a serious caveman air. The 'Yale Ruggers' slogan across the front does little to alleviate the primeval factor - more 'grunge look' than decorating professional. Wilf sniffs the dangling sleeve and looks at me admiringly.

Out with the paint and the brushes and up the ladder. All goes well until I feel what appears to be a gentle drizzle of rain falling on my head. The old rafters are pitted with cracks and holes and the paint refuses to spread evenly. Instead it congregates in dimples in the beams from where it eddies before dropping, relentlessly down. Wilf looks on from his place on the terrace. His face seeming to say " Fact of life. There are never enough dust sheets when you want them".