This has got to stop. I really must refrain from sniffing mind-altering chemical substances. My poison this time is enamel paint and there seem to be no “low odour” varieties of this noxious liquid. So this is my penance for choosing to introduce an old and rusty bathtub into my life. 

My first task was to track down a source for a bath enamel kit. I was drawing a blank with the friends and family “word of mouth” search system. Then someone suggested searching via the Internet. This took me by surprise because, despite being all linked up (and that concept blows my mind right from the start – I still don’t understand the telephone system), I never ever think of using the Internet for anything. I’m sure I have been born into the wrong century.

Once my nine year old son had helped me to link up to the net (see, I don’t even know the jargon) I typed in “bath enamel” with a large degree of scepticism. But, after some chuntering, two listings appeared with offers to sell me a “Tubby DIY Kit” there and then, on screen. I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that so I jotted down their telephone numbers, wound down the computer and phoned them up. Where’s the logic in that?

I felt a great sense of achievement when the kit arrived in the post a few days later. Somehow that seemed to be enough achievement for the time being and I didn’t actually open the box for several weeks. Then, having never enamelled a bathtub, I thought I had better read the instructions (usually a last resort). These proved so daunting that the whole kit was parked on a shelf again and has been glaring at me ever since. Now, finally, I must get the job done.

First I get all of us to take a bath because the tub will be out of action for two days once I have painted it. Then, boys pyjama’d and tucked up in bed, I scrub the bath with the provided cleaning powder. After that I scrub it again – it is shamefully grubby. Point two in the instructions demands that I sand the surface with abrasive paper (two sheets provided) until it has “worn through completely”. This requires so much elbow grease (none provided) that I wonder about the wording of the instructions. Who is supposed to be worn through completely? The old enamel, the sandpaper or me?

Two sheets of sandpaper later the tub is snow white and no longer looks as if it needs re-enamelling. However I am certainly not giving up now. The paint needs to be applied in a warm, well-ventilated, dust-free room. Orkney weather makes this quite hard to achieve. Opening a window introduces a small gale into the room that reduces the air temperature by several degrees per second and liberates dust from every nook and cranny. I settle for warm and dust free – two out of three ain’t bad – and resign myself to inhaling the fumes.

Three hours and two paint coats later I stretch my aching back and proudly survey my dazzling bathtub. The gleaming surface looks good as new. Meanwhile I am sweaty and exhausted. What I could really do with now is a bath.