As one door closes…

Eleven doors on my way to work.

Bob the cat scrabbling to be let out.

I work near where I live. In fact, I work next door.

In order to get there, I have to leave my bed and go through the door to the en-suite bathroom. This is a solid wood door with frosted glass panels to let the light in. I painted it dark grey a couple of years ago so that it would match all the others upstairs. They were a bit of an eclectic set you see, and I couldn’t afford to change them all, what with my daughter’s wedding approaching.

Finished with the bathroom, I re-enter the bedroom to get dressed. I am in the habit of laying out my clothes before my shower. I’m not sure how long this has been going on, but it seems well ingrained now. Dressed, but not shod, I carry yesterday’s dirty clothes to the wash basket in the hallway, which I enter via the bedroom door. This one, as the en-suite door, is a dark eggshell grey and both have matching brushed steel handles and locks (which we never use).

I carry the washbasket downstairs to thrill my wife. Over the years we have each fallen into old-fashioned, broadly gendered roles. Sarah does the washing, I do the bins and the garden. We share the cooking (70/30 — guess who’s 30), but she runs the house, which includes doing the shopping. She secretly enjoys this. I do the DIY and decorating, and brush and pressure…