There are those people whose aesthetic seems truly gifted, and it is, generally speaking. They seem to be born with a gene which exhibits a fine aesthetic, an appreciation for the genuinely creative, excellent workmanship, artistic sensibilities, the use of colour and light, and often are themselves fully capable of producing art works. My husband is one of these.

He tends, not toward the zen spectrum of embellishment, however, but toward the lavish. And sometimes he gets carried away with the enthusiasm of replicating the masterful balance that craftsmen of the past achieved when detailing their expertise in the execution of fine woodwork. Which he appears to have done when he decided to redecorate the powder room on the first floor of our house. Which had been decorated formerly by him, a decade earlier, much to my satisfaction.

Out went the old; in, over time, came the new. With plenty of attention to detail. And a seeming unawareness that complications beget their own complexities. The result of which, painting all those little niches and turnings has turned out a bit of a nightmare. That nightmare was exacerbated by a truly unfortunate choice of paint colour, quite unlike my husband's usual grace in recognizing what is suitable and what is, definitely not. The horrendous bubble-gum pink he painted on the far wall made the stained glass window look wretchedly miserable.

We both regarded the results and persuaded ourselves it wasn't all that awful, we'd become accustomed to it and begin to enjoy it. That state of uncertainty lasted all of ten minutes, when he hied himself off to bring home a new paint selection which will cover the raucous pink quite handsomely.