Preserving and Improving Family Heirlooms...

No pain. Well none to speak of. Tedious, yes. Spare room closer to the bathroom. So installed there, for time being. Just at night. Yesterday morning Dearest husband walks into spare room which I laughingly call his Dressing Room. A while ago, I decided to rationalise his dressing options to reduce the "Where's-my?" in my life.
"Jesus Christ!" he said, "I'd forgotten you were there!" Obviously not missing a wifely shape in the marital bed.
For someone who notices everything in fine print, a kitchen cupboard door hanging wonky, or a bathroom drawer that simply isn't straight, he is famous for missing the blindingly obvious. Like a grandfather clock delivered from Scotland (and no, it was not at the end of a baronial hall, but in a snug study) and now a mis-placed wife.
At the back of the wardrobe which sounds more like Narnia every time I make reference to it, I recently unearthed two dreary oil paintings. They had been painted by my late father-in-law over 60 years ago.  I was thinking of re-burying them when I was touched by sentiment. Perhaps Dearest would like these for Christmas, if I got them cleaned up. The frames were quite nice, after all. So I had a word with our artist friend, Anthony Wildig, who was prepared to do some work on them.
Last week they were ready. I couldn't wait for Christmas, I wanted him to enjoy them right now. So Anthony hung them and they didn't look bad at all. In fact, they looked considerably better.
It was twenty minutes before my Dearest husband noticed them. I put a clock on it. He was, however, very pleased.
What he doesn't know, is that Anthony, with my permission, had added little soupçon of colour to the clouds: brought them up lovely. The paintings were unsigned. If they turn out to be by JMW Turner, then I, no longer a smug thing, will have buggered the inheritance.
Now that really would be a pain.