Sisyphean

 If you buy a Victorian workers cottage in the UK, and if you are reasonably lucky, chances are that buried underneath the "progress" of linoleum and laminate and hardboard and carpet you will have fairly decent floorboards. Usually pine, but maybe oak if it was a posher house. 

We have been lucky. 3 of the 4 rooms in our new house have pine floorboards, in - salvageable - reasonable - condition. 

Whoo hoo we thought. Quids in. Hurrah. 

But wait.

The boards must be sanded. And to sand them, every nail must be either removed or pounded down so it won't catch. Looks easy from standing height, but you get down on your knees with your eyes on the floor (where - spoiler alert - you will be for what seems like the rest of your life) - and you will see that these boards are infested - positively lousy - with nails. Some small, some large. Some bent over and hammered in, some so rusted when you try to pry them out the head just pops off and you have to pound them in instead. 

You will go over the boards and pick out every crappy bit of metal. Then you will look again and see six more, laughing at you. You will do those. Then you will decide to be systematic and go through board by board and you will find so many more you wonder if perhaps you must have some sort of sight deficiency that is hampering your efforts. That's got to be it, you think, trying to stand up - stumbling on your numb and aching legs, and hearing the distinctive rip of denim on yet another bloody nail. 

I have visions of previous inhabitants. "Oh I say, Elspeth, it is a quiet evening. Why don't we pound a few more upholstery tacks into the floorboards?" "Oh John, you are terrible you are! Oh you hound - well go on then - pass me the hammer!"