S'andy man

I have been sanding floors.

For two days.

My head hurts.

"Worse things happen at sea," smiled Mrs Stark in an attempt to diffuse my explosive mood.
"Yeah, some poor bastard has to sand and stain the entire deck," I replied before returning to the task in hand.

I hired an industrial sander from one of those hire places which make you feel less of a man because you don't know the difference between an 'orbital' and a 'drum' sander.
When I say " you" I obviously mean "me."

Perhaps I am less of a man because of this. Or because I had to use ear plugs when using the big, scary alpha-male sanding machine. (Well, it was creating a bit of a racket and I'm growing more noise sensitive in my old age).

Anyway, Stark mansions has returned to its peaceful state and the floors look... well, like it's been 'Tango'd'. The tin read 'antique pine' but the lady at the counter must have switched it for 'Shades of Dale Winton'.

"Never mind," said Mrs S, "it'll look better when it dries in."

Things never look better when they 'dry in.' (ooh, hark at the woodstain philosopher)