Stuart Macbeth recalls the moment his artistic talents were spurned by someone who ought to have know better

Many years ago I secured a job removing staples from sheets of A4 paper, at a nuclear power plant. There wasn’t much of a future in it. But at least it was a step up from my previous job – working at a top London art gallery.

This gallery had numerous directors. On site was the managing director, who I once heard describing herself as “a glorified shop keeper” while on the phone to her mum. The others called, or drifted in causally from time to time.

I soon realised that you could be a director of just about anything in this art gallery providing that you were willing to do no actual work, wear designer glasses, and talk out of your backside.

On the plus side, those lucky enough to advance to a level of seniority might eventually go on to earn three - possibly four - complimentary glasses of white wine a month.

After a few weeks, one of these hallowed women – they were always women – came up to me with a whiff, and a smile. What did I want to do when I grew up, she enquired?

At the time, I had oil paints in my flat. I admit that, at the age of 23 I fancied myself as a bit of a Jackson Pollock. It seemed that this encounter with the high and mighty was the opportunity I had been waiting for.

“I’m a painter,” I mumbled.

Her face lit up. “A painter? That’s great! Can you come round and do my flat?”

She had five rooms. I was handed a couple of tins of trendy terracotta paint and offered £25 to do the lot. “You won’t need groundsheets” she confirmed, when I suggested covering the carpet. Masking tape was another reckless expense.

It still amazes me that someone who wouldn’t blink at spending £127m on a Picasso, refused to part with 99p to buy a roll of masking tape from Homebase. But there’s a lesson to be learned here – you really do get what you pay for.

When she came to view the results, the look on her face was priceless. She bounded in, panting heavily.

“How do you think it’s going?” she choked eventually, pointing at the splattered carpet beneath her shoes.

She wasn’t happy. Neither was I. I had given it my best shot. Yet I maintain it was her fault.

She could have phoned - and paid - a professional. If you’re not willing to pay the going rate for services you only have yourself to blame when you come home, expecting a series of neatly coloured terracotta walls, and discover what looks like a crime scene in which a giant pack of butterscotch Angel Delight has exploded.

So I never did get that £25. On the plus side, I can get staples out of A4 paper with my eyes closed.