My front door is many things:
and a telepathic psychopath
to name just a few.
(If you were my front door
you would have known that already.)
But all that extra-sensory-power
has warped my front door’s sense of humour.
It used to laugh at Carry on Films
and musical comedy,
but now my front door gets its kicks
from terrorising me.
Whenever I leave my house
it sends mental messages.
‘Come back! You forgot to lock me!’
‘I locked you,’ I say, wise to its game.
‘No you didn’t. I’m open and vulnerable.
Anyone could wander in.’
‘No, no, no! I locked you, I bloody well locked you.’
‘Nah ah ah!’
‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘You’ve been wrong before.’
My front door laughs apologetically.
‘But this time I’m open,’ it says. ‘I promise you!
Please come back to me.’
And then I become unsure of my certainty.
At which point my front door
reminds me of a recent
spate of thefts in the local area.
So I speed back home to fend off burglars,
squatters and Jehovah’s witnesses
who feast on my Custard Creams.
When I reach my house I slam on the brakes,
and race towards my front door,
only to find it closed and very locked
with no hint of a burglar anywhere nearby.
As usual, my front door remains quiet,
and I promise myself I won’t ever come back again.