The LTLP stands with hands on hips.
“Don’t tell me,” she threatens. “It’s another…”
“It’s a railway sign!” I exclaim delightedly.
“It’s another railway sign,” she agrees. “You really are the saddest, saddest…”
“It’s really nicely made.”
“The place is starting to look like some sort of period signage museum,” she complains, inaccurately.
Later on, we are sitting in the comfortable swinging seats in the garden. My gaze falls on the gable end of the cottage. Despite my resourceful erection of trellis and the picturesque foul drainage downpipe, the wall is mostly a plain slab of bricks that lacks interesting features. I mull this over for some time.
“You know what would look really good on that gable end?” I muse.
“Would it be, perchance, some sort of large painted vintage advertising sign?” she replies sarcastically.
I must have mentioned my good idea previously. I keep quiet for a bit.
“Actually that would be a really good gable end for a rousing mural,” I suggest. “It is a shame that there is not more sectarian violence in the Village.”
I am told that I am not allowed to paint a mural on the gable end, nor even any slogans.