I don't know if they still do it these days, but when I was a schoolgirl one of our first tasks of the new term was to write an essay entitled 'What I Did During My Holidays'. A singularly uninspiring title, it proved extremely difficult to describe exactly what I DID do on my holidays to the satisfaction of my English teacher.

What she and I considered meaningful events did not exactly coincide; she wanted flowing prose describing the wonders of my day trip to the Isle of Wight, and the excitement of being a bridesmaid at Cousin Emma's wedding; I, on the other hand, considered these trivial affairs when compared to the thrill of finding a dead pigeon in the garage, or the trauma of my best friend Carol falling into the stream.

However, if I was asked to write one of these essays now, I would have no difficulties at all.

I decided to re-decorate my bedroom.

An innocuous little phrase, easy to type, no long words that are difficult to spell. It was a decision taken quite lightly. How was I to know it would turn out to be such a traumatic affair? It is only a small bedroom, and after all there are four days over Easter - what could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words! Any thoughts that Mr Murphy might have gone away for the holidays were dashed right from the start. The troubles began when I went to the local DIY shop on Thursday evening.

I had been quite organised, I had made a list of the things I would need, I had carefully measured the size of the room so I could calculate how many rolls of paper I would need and how much paint, and I had written it all out in detail. I had then left the list at home. Ah well, I just had to resort to guesswork - and prayer.

First things first. One of those scrapey things to remove the old wallpaper from the wall. I am sure there is some technical term for it, but I don't know what it is; still I am sure that won't stop me from using one. I found them with no problem and selected the right size and shape from a bewildering choice - who would think there is the need for such a variety of scrapey things?

Next, wallpaper paste. No problems here, just select a large packet from the shelf and tuck it under one arm. Then realise the one I have selected has a hole in it and is depositing its contents into my shopping bag, so replace it and select another packet.

Now for the paper. I wanted plain lining paper, with no knobbly bits. I searched among the very tasteful patterns that these shops offer (large purple flowers, orange and green stripes - who buys this stuff?) until I found the lining paper. They had lots and lots with knobbly bits on. Big knobbly bits, little knobbly bits, knobbly bits in diagonal stripes, knobbly bits in big swirly circular patterns, all very pretty but not what I was after. Nowhere could I see the plain boring un-adorned lining paper. I realised, with a shudder of trepidation, that I would have to consult an assistant.

Now, a word about assistants in DIY shops - particularly those in the East End of London. They all suffer from an acute case of Chas'n'Dave Syndrome - you know, that chirpy cheery cheeky chappy act. They call all women 'My Doll' and manage to turn every innocuous phrase (like 'please can I have a paint brush') into a double entendre. This sort of behaviour makes me want to either throw a paint tin at their heads, or run away screaming. Or both.

They also think it a huge joke that a woman should be doing any DIY, and any enquiry is greeted with raised eyebrows that you are actually strong enough to lift a hammer on your own.

Anyway, I found an assistant lurking in a corner, and managed to persuade him to find me the plain lining paper. With no knobbly bits. They only had four rolls left, but a quick bit of mental arithmatic reassured me that four was probably going to be enough.

Next, rollers and paint trays and all the other bits one needs. No problems here. I heaved a huge sigh of relief - I just had to find the paint and I could get out of there.

I had decided to paint the room black to match my favourite clothes, so I started browsing through the rows and rows of 457 different shades of not-quite-white (which when you actually put them on the walls all end up looking as if the brilliant white paint you put up two years ago has been covered with a light film of tobacco smoke) searching for black paint. And I found it. They had black gloss. They had black woodstain. They even had black emulsion in those teeny tiny tins you buy to patch up teeny tiny bits you missed last time. But did they have black emulsion in sensible sized cans? Of course not! Fear and loathing filled my soul as I found the assistant again. After a little jolly banter about how I would be "at it" all weekend, he deigned to walk into the storeroom at the back, and found me a suitable sized tin. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I paid for my goodies and left to the cheery sound of the assistant harrassing some other poor unsuspecting female.

Acting on an old family motto - NEVER DO TODAY WHAT YOU CAN PUT OFF TILL TOMMOROW - I decided I would not do anything that evening, but would make a really early start the next day.

Having made this decision, perhaps it was not the best of ideas to drink one and a half bottles of wine and stay up until 5.00 in the morning. But that is what I did. Consequently my 'really early start' turned out to be at 3.00 in the afternoon when I dragged myself out of bed feeling a little the worse for wear.

Several Alka Seltzers later I realised that if I didn't make a start soon, I never would.

First job - furniture moving. But before the furniture could be shifted, it had to be cleared of clutter. This meant dismantling the stereo and the computer, very very carefully carrying them into another room piece by piece, and then remantling them (if there is such a word). Having reconnected the computer to all its various bits, well I had to make sure nothing had been damaged in the move, didn't I? So loaded in a game and sat down, just to test it.

Two hours later I thought maybe I had better do a little more work.

It didn't take long to move the rest of the furniture into the middle of the room, or out altogether, leaving the walls ready and waiting to be stripped.

Now I read this book once about decorating, and it said that wallpaper paste is water-soluble. Additional proof of this fact was that where there were huge damp patches on the walls from a leaking pipe, the wallpaper was peeling away in nice big chunks (this was the reason for needing to redecorate). So logic suggests that by slopping vast quantities of water onto the walls, the paste will dissolve and the paper will come off easily. And according to the book, this is the accepted method.

Unfortunately, the wallpaper in my bedroom had obviously not read this book, and had no grasp of logic. It stubbornly refused to be shifted. I attacked it vigorously with the scrapey thing (there must be a word for it!) and little tiny flakes - about an inch square - started to come off. Three hours later I had done half of one wall. At this point desperation set in, and if it hadn't been a Bank holiday I would have rushed out and bought a blow-torch to burn the stuff off. It certainly was not being a GOOD FRIDAY for me.

Having thrown enough water on the walls to bath three elephants, I decided to leave it overnight to soak and make a really early start in the morning.

Saturday dawned, bright and clear, and miracle of miracles I actually did get started about 9.00. Things seemed to go much better than they had the day before - obviously leaving it to soak overnight had helped a lot. Or maybe the lack of a hangover had something to do with it...

I removed most of the paper quite successfully, leaving only a few stubborn bits near the ceiling. In order to reach these I had to stand on a chair. Unfortunately, the soles of my shoes had become covered with little strips of soggy wallpaper which had sort of pulped into papier mache. I stood on the chair and stretched up to a particularly recalcitrant strip of paper - and my foot slipped off the chair and landed in the bucket of water.

At this point I decided enough was enough - any bits left on the wall would just be papered over. I filled four dustbin sacks with soggy paper and stoppd for the day.

Sunday. Wallpapering. Undoubtedly the nastiest - and most difficult - task. However, having got this far I had to proceed, I could not undo what I had just done. So I made a start. Let's get organised, I thought. Let's cut all the paper up first, before I start sploshing paste about. So I carefully measured the height of the walls, and carefully measured the paper to the same length, then left a bit extra for luck, then cut it out. Then, just to be on the safe side, I measured it up against the wall to make sure it was the right length. Which it wasn't. Typical! Undaunted, I carefully measured the wall again, carefully measured the paper again, and cut again. This time I left a huge overlap of about 15 inches, so there could be absolutely no mistakes.

Then, having cut all the paper up, I started slapping paste onto it, trying to stop it trailing on the floor and depositing its glue onto the carpet.

Then the fun started. Getting the paper onto the wall. Trying to lift the entire length of the paper meant it started adhering itself to me. This made transferring it to the wall in a straight line, with no air bubbles or wrinkly bits, absolutely impossible. And that was only the first piece. For all the other pieces I had the added trauma of trying to line up the edges with no gaps or overlaps, and without tearing great holes in it while I manipulated it. And then, even worse, I had to make some bits go round corners.

Still, I persevered, getting more glue on my clothes and on the carpet than I was getting on the paper, until I suddenly stopped and looked at how far I had got. I counted the number of strips I had used to cover two walls. I estimated the number of strips I would need to cover the rest of the walls. I counted the number of strips of paper I had left. The former was greater than the latter. I was going to run out of paper.

At this point I remembered the large number of unemployed youths who would have been only too happy to earn a little money by doing the job for me twice as well, and in half the time. I poured myself a large drink and contemplated my sheer stupidity in trying to do the job myself.

Then I realised that the section of wall still missing paper was where the majority of the furniture went. I hacked up the remaining pieces of paper and distributed them around the most promiment parts of the walls, then I cut off the huge overlaps I had left on the original pieces and made a sort of patchwork out of them to finish off. Then I stood back to admire my handiwork.

It looked ghastly! It resembled the hide of a very old elephant - all wrinkly and sagging. Still, I thought, it won't look so bad once I put the paint on top. I hope.

And so to bed, to awake refreshed in the morning for the final day.

After the traumas of putting the wallpaper up, I was quite looking forward to splashing paint onto the walls. But first I had to look and see just how bad the paper actually looked.

Overnight the paste had dried, and most of the airbubbles had disappeared. There were several huge great wrinkles still apparent, and in several places the paper refused to stick down - which is ironic when you consider how stubborn the old stuff was in coming off - but on the whole it didn't look too bad (I tried to convince myself).

So I started splashing the paint about with a paint roller. This was the fun part and it went very quickly. Within less than an hour I had covered all the walls. I had also covered all my clothes, and my arms, and my face, with little black spots which had sprayed off the roller with every stroke. I look as if I was suffering some very virulent form of tropical disease.

Then the not-so-fun bit; the edges. Using a small brush I very very carefully began to fill in the little bits along the edge of the skirting board, underneath the ceiling, and round all the woodwork. But since I don't have particularly steady hands, nor am I a patient person (particularly when I have just spent three days in decorating hell) I kept sort of missing. After the first few splurges on the ceiling, I stopped caring and just dabbed it on any old how. Well, no-one ever looks at the ceiling.

Then a well-earned break to give the paint time to dry, during which time I left the room unattended. I soon realised that this was a BIG mistake, when I heard a splash! followed by a loud MIAOW! Rushing back into the bedroom I found that the cat had fallen into the paint tray, and was now rushing round the room leaving little black paw-marks on the carpet.

Refraining from chucking the little dear over the balcony, I started sploshing on the second coat. And it was done. Another few hours to let it dry and then I moved the furniture back in. Of course, while moving the furniture I managed to tear a bit more of the paper, but by this time I really didn't care.

Standing back to admire my 'handiwork' I was amazed to find that it really didn't look too bad. It certainly looked a lot better than it deserved to, considering the bodge job I had made of it.

And I could take pride in the fact that I had followed that other old family motto:

IF A JOB'S WORTH DOING, IT'S WORTH DOING BADLY!

The Diesel's Dump web pages and all the articles on it are copyright © Fi Craig 1996-2012.

The art on the Diesel's Dump site is by Robin Grenville Evans, a professional artist and cartoonist.
See a selection of his work, and contact him about commissions, at http://www.grenville-evans.co.uk/index.html.