I didn't set out to be a plasterer. My father passed away, and I was helping clear my mother's house. I pulled a mirror off the bathroom wall and took a section of the original plaster with it. What was underneath stopped me: three coats, hair fiber, the marks of someone's hands from a hundred years ago.

I spent the next 12 days learning how to fix it properly instead of patching it with compound and moving on.

I'd spent thirty years in the software industry. Nothing I made would outlast the year it was written. That bathroom wall lasted a century. The repair I put back needs to last another one.

Once I understood what the original plasterer had done - the care, the layers, the material - settling for less felt like a betrayal of the building. That's the standard I hold every job to now: historic restoration, decorative finishes with real depth, and functional lime plasters built to last.