If garden furniture were a thing during the Renaissance I'm confident that's what Michelangelo would have concentrated his considerable talents on.
Ceilings... I mean, who even looks at them? Or goes to church, for that matter.
It was in that spirit I turned my hand to the greatest of the creative arts last week. I decided to paint everything in the garden that was made of wood.
That was chairs and benches, a table and a door leading out to a lane and a variety of decorative items which rain and time had rendered washed-out and sad.
It took me days and I invoked the ghost of past masters so as to bring my best self to this task. Genius is as genius does.
I mostly used a certain brand of paints and varnishes which promises to do exactly what it says on the tin. In fairness, it does.
It's an old truism that a bad workman blames his tools, but this artist is happy to offer his brush and paints their due credit.
The result of all this is that the garden came up smelling of roses.
In this time of Covid it's nice to find something that gives you a little life satisfaction. That comforting feeling that you still have a credible function within an increasingly sceptical family.
Debs was encouraging, on the basis that if I was painting outdoors I wasn't painting indoors. She had no particular objection to me spoiling the grass because it will grow out.
She is less tolerant to the occasional pool of gloss on a rug or carpet. A bit of a perfectionist, so she is.
A proper decorator told me once that painting was all in the preparation. Close to 50pc of the job.
What I took from that was that if you didn't bother prepping you were half way there already. It seemed like a no-brainer.
That's why if you study my oeuvre you might find insects immortalised and random dust, bird droppings and dirt brushed over and forever frozen in time.
My theme could be permanence in a superficial world which preferences the transitory. Very woke.
It could become my artistic signature. Michelangelo would understand.
It's a smashing time to be a bored teenager
I had to go out to the middle of the road to avoid them. There must have been a dozen or more. Lads mostly, in their high teens and in higher spirits.
A few were swigging out of bottles, some more eating rubbish. They left a trail of detritus in their wake.
The sun was out, the sky was blue. What else would they be doing?
After they had passed round the next corner I could hear a bottle smash and a roar of approval.
I don't have one foot in the grave yet, so don't want this to sound like a 'in-my-day' moan.
I was no angel myself at that age and would have regarded a modicum of anti-social behaviour as my birthright.
But there was something in this little vignette that made me wonder about what sort of summer might lie ahead.
Think of the pent-up energy being unleashed after two months' quarantine in box bedrooms.
Add the fact that about 125,000 of them aren't sitting state exams and are roaming our towns a month early.
It makes for a truly heady combination.
You could also note the near total absence of the sort of time-consuming jobs that would otherwise keep them out of harm's way during a long hot summer.
You could feel sorry for them, but I reckon by the time the sun goes down on this season the sympathy will be reserved for the rest of us.