Paint and death

There was once a painter. He was not a Royal Acamedian or a painter of the lofty-garret-in-Paris type. He painted people's houses. He considered it an art. He drank tea while at work, thirstily, more in the morning when he could never seem to satiate his thirst even with the bucket loads he drank.

He worked intermittently because he didn't always need the money. He other half had plenty and she kept him, mostly comfortably, most of the time. His wants were simple. He wanted no one to tell him what to do or how to behave. He wanted to be free from virtually all responsibility. He wanted to drink beer as much as he liked, without anyone questioning him. He always said he didn't need to drink but he enjoyed it. He actually enjoyed the release from the crushing sense of his lack of ambition, of wasting his life and never reaching his potential. He din't know what his potential was, but he knew he would never reach it, so he never tried. He just drank.

One day he drank. It was after work. He went home from the pub and drank some more. He sat in the sofa and watched the football. The football finished but he was no longer watching, he was no longer going to do anything.

Time up

I took inspiration from the Writing inspiration tumbler blog: 'Write about paint. Fresh paint, dry paint, really hideous colour paint, peeling paint on your grandma’s rocking chair.'