THIS weekend I’ve been painting. Now if you’re the artistic type and immediately envisaged easels canvas and palettes, then consider signing up for Artweeks in May 2013 (and, oh yes, the deadline is fast approaching – see artweeks.org for more information).

But for those of you who thought of overalls, step-ladders and brushes, you’ve hit the nail on the head: I am redoing The Daughter’s bedroom.

A month ago she suggested – gently – that, for Christmas, she might have her room redecorated. I quickly calculated the price of a bucket of Dulux silk, or an own-brand equivalent to save on the budget, and, happily, I agreed.

The deal was done, or so I thought. But obviously I hadn’t read the small print, because several days later I came across The Daughter assembling an interior design scrapbook of Louis XVI furniture and pasting them alongside pictures of John Lewis accessories with all the flamboyance of Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen with a Buckingham Palace bank account.

After an extended period of renegotiation which would have impressed a Cuban ambassador in the thick of a missile crisis, a delicate agreement was reached, underwritten with a small budget and an Ikea catalogue on to which I’d stencilled the reminder ‘the answer will probably be no’.

The scene was set and paint colour heavily debated over wads of colour charts, after which the lesser party (me) was overruled and despatched to Homebase with strict instructions.

And so I spent Saturday merrily rolling over walls, ruining a sheet and speckling an outfit that’ll now come in handy if I ever need lesser-spotted woodpecker fancy dress. Out on the town that evening, I had to pretend to be a Stone Roses tribute.

Mind you, even before I went wild with the emulsion, I’ve been roaming the countryside with mud spattered from head to toe like a leopard after some off-road action.

My biking friend has a giant rucksack that looks as if he’s prepared for an overnight camping expedition and has brought along enough firewood to heat a tin bath – and that’s frankly what I need when I get home.

Either that or I can press myself against a wall as a Jackson Pollock. In the Daughter’s bedroom even?

And perhaps that would count as artistic?