My toughest weekend needs no decoration

By the time I finally flopped on the bed at 8 o'clock on Sunday night, I was a broken woman; unable to move an inch for the next 11 hours.

I know what you're thinking: "Wow good for you, Liz, running the London Marathon. What a trooper. What an achievement."

Gee, thanks guys.

But, alas, 'tis not the case.

If only an epic 26-mile challenge in the name of charity was the reason for my broken and battered bod. In actual fact, I've just been doing a spot of painting.

Now, I spend my life tap, tap, tapping away at a computer or slumped in my car driving here, there and everywhere to chat to people who've seen the face of Jesus in their toast or been charged £60 for a cabbage in Asda, it's therefore been a very looooong time since I've done some actual physical graft.

And, my god, what a shock to the system it was.

All you painters, decorators, brickies and chippies out there have my utmost respect. You're some sort of mutant race. You have superhuman strength and stamina. You're like the X-Men, only with white vans, a penchant for extremely sweet tea and you're all called Dave.

My 48 hours of DIY were better than any gym workout, any celebrity fitness DVD out there.

I feel like I've got the biceps of Popeye and the thighs of Serena Williams. I reckon my new-found paintbrush grip would also outdo her tennis racket one in the blink of an eye. Although, don't tell her I said that.

And the thing is, it's not like I've created the Wolverhampton version of the Sistine Chapel in my little flat: I've slapped two coats of magnolia on four walls and built an Ikea table and chairs. Well, my dad built the table and chairs, but I supervised. I also brought him cups of sweet tea and he's called Dave. No white van though.

But just this little bit of painting, this minor amount of assembling a £12 chair called Ivar, completely broke me and then built me back up into thinking I'm the female version of Handy Andy. Busy Lizzy? Designer Eliza? Sweaty Betty?

Hmm, probably the latter if this weekend's anything to go by.

The point is, I've caught the DIY bug, which sounds more like a computer virus or something you'd need a cream for rather than an all-consuming desire to spruce up your house, but still, there it is.

Now I've got a sparkly new bedroom and improved kitchen (I believe I'm now officially allowed to call it a kitchen/diner), I'm more determined than ever to get my modest little flat looking the best it possibly can.

And if I just so happen to lose my bingo wings in the process, more's the better.

Now, hand me that paintbrush and get the kettle on. Three sugars for me.