A week or so ago I googled heat resistant paint for my log burner, which you would think would get to the bottom of what I was after. Of course Amazon came up first, second, third, forth and all the rest on the search, so I checked out the paints, all the ones with the good reviews, and ordered a small pot to be processed by humans and robots (Hubots or Romans) working in sweatshops in harmony with each other. The Robots wiping sweat from the human’s face as they work to fulfil their orders. In fact aren’t the Amazon work houses called Fulfilment centres? I’m sure that was what they called them on the documentary I saw last night. The operatives under so much pressure, no time to have a piss even apart from at allowed times, it sounds more like a daily episode of the Japanese game show; endurance, but with no respite, like groundhog day for ever until you either escape or die.
There are some people at Amazon, who have excellent working conditions and with the opportunity to travel, like Jeff Bozo, upto Mars or the Moon, Wanker. If I had his money I wouldn’t be interested in going to the Moon.
Anyway, my paint and my burner, the paint came with 2 extra paintbrushes in 3 different packages; 2 plastic one cardboard, I wouldn’t have minded if they had arrived unpacked. Maybe we could specify if we want packaging or not, this would then fire speculation as to what my neighbours have ordered if the parcel left with us is wrapped and suspiciously or provocatively shaped, the village social would be full of Chinese whispers and jumped up tales made up by people with nothing better to do, god knows theres enough in this village. If you go on the official FB site (which you can’t because its invite only) you will see what I mean. One of the main protagonists and, I think, controller of the FB site mentioned that she had to walk out of a local shop because a “Chinese” person in front of her in the Post Office queue was sneezing. “CORONA VIRUS!” she screamed in capital letters on the site when she got home and sat behind her laptop with a coffee; these bloody Foreigners.
This is not my view by the way, but that of a 50 something lady with nothing better to do than poke her nose into other peoples business.
The paint went on really well, 3 coats, and the burner looked awful smart, when I lit the wood we had a situation developing very fast, blue sky thinkers would call it dynamic, acrid smoke was filling the lounge, i was getting a headache, Mrs T was also getting a headache. My daughter was complaining about the cold and complaining about the smell and complaining that we had no food in and complaining that the supper I cooked wasn’t up to scratch and complaining that the exams are so much harder now that they were when we were her age, its a wonder we made it this far. The paint situation needed to be resolved, the Kingdom of Shrawley is cold, we are in winter although with the flooding at least it is a bit warmer. Sometimes I sit in my lounge and can draw parallels with my folks and I, I’m sitting in front of the same television programs, freezing my nuts off and telling them when ever IO visit to sort the heating out, to down size, to make their life easier and more comfortable, I realise I am like my folks but with a different T-shirt.
I am at this point consulting the internet, friends and my own mind to see what I should do. The paint company told me to stop all burning immediately, apply some paint stripper (from them) then apply some more paint (from them) and then all will be well. This seems rather labour intensive and not pleasurable in the slightness so I have taken the anarchist’s path suggested to me by pretty much everyone else, none of whom have a foothold in the heat resistant paint business, the advice is to burn the fuck out of the burner and sooner or later all the toxic shit will have burnt off. So with doors and windows open in the lounge creating a kind of wind tunnel. I have spent some time sat in the wind tunnel; days with the fire turned right up, the pallet wood burning as hot as it will go and teetering on the edge of full blown nausea, at the event horizon of passing out. I am confident that with enough burning the evil will be destroyed, and I dare others to tell me this is not so.
At the end of the debacle I will have holes in my lungs form inhaling too much paint stuff, but at least I won’t have, “Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconiosis” which comes from inhaling too much volcanic dust.