Gas Gas Gas
One flicked switch and our little Henry starts his long hard draw on our basement bong. Only one coat down and I too started to get light headed. The INFOWARS face-mask might stop chemtrails, but it didn't stop primer. On the bright side, the paint was looking good. Coat number two, by this point I'm laughing whether I like it or not (I do). The house shreeks, it's windows flapped up as if to say: 'I surrender.' - yet there was ammo still to burn. Fearing for my life, I opportunistically donned my gas-mask. This deeply concerned my housemates, whose floorboards have gaps in them. One of them, fleeing his chamber, launched a domestic on me:
Good-Lord forbid that our landlord find this thread or our omissions may become unravelled. One-wipe-800 grit the next morning left the parts looking smooth. But the same could not be said for our internal organs. So the next day we moved the operation outside, into the blistering English summer. Unlike the primer, the base coat left the can rather like a curry leaves you - initially satisfied, but later devastated (when a part-spent can begins to spurt). Even so, splatterings upon splatterings - interlaced with a light pass of 800 every third coat - left us with an acceptable finish.
Another day blessed with good weather. Big heat means shiny lacquer. So shiny it was that on the very last coat, captivated by my own reflection, I blasted a spot. Blast! Thankfully, the grille, mirrors and my free-time was spared by an ancient bottle of T-Cut which was generously donated by Nick's father. Bolting the car back together did not go uninterrupted by the twitching of curtains and twisting of necks. Heck, even the busdriver stopped to have a look. All in all, besides a spot of rust and a few chips, our Carry is looking stellar.