The day always kicks off with a visit from the postman with the fumbling fingers. As he approaches, I let out a small groaning creak as I spy the small parcel in his hand. He’s either hopelessly optimistic about his ability to coax a package through a small hole, embarrassingly inept at understanding basic physics, or desperately avoidant of knocking and having to converse with my owner (understandable, really). True to form, his frostbitten fingers, which are now a shade of duck-egg blue more commonly seen on an interior wall, begin jamming in the package, which tickles and even takes off a few of the bristles of my letterbox in the process.
My owner, Sandra, swings me open and heads out on to the steps beneath me. During lockdown, she’s taken up running with an enthusiasm previously reserved only for cappuccinos with her friends at the local coffee shop. Sandra never does things by halves, so she’s dressed in all the gear, with an oddly shaped water bottle in hand, and she proceeds to do a short warm-up of the hamstrings, pressing her hands against my firm, wooden surface. Her friends think she’s become some kind of miracle athlete, but I keep her secret as safe as a lost key: she runs for about 15 minutes and then walks the rest, listening to a podcast. She comes back only mildly sweaty, which I’m grateful for as she bookends the light jog with a cool down against my surface again.
Lunchtime on a weekend is a bit of tiresome time of day for me. At this point, I start getting swamped with endless hopeful Instagram influencers and budding freelance photographers. I used to find it quite complementary to have people stopping in the street to get a snap of my beautiful front, but over the years, it’s worn me down a little. No one ever asks my permission, and sometimes I catch sight of the photos on the tiny phone slabs and I tut at the poor angles and lighting. When viewed front-on, early morning, I know my Moroccan sky blue door is a beauty to behold. It’s worth attention. But that attention hasn’t won me any favours with my neighbouring doors, who all resent the limelight I get. I would happily share the load, but their owners really are at fault here for choosing unremarkable colours for them.
Three people approach with clipboards. This makes me apprehensive, because it’s usually the Lib Dems and Sandra tends to be quite rude to them which results in me getting quite a painful, curt shut. They stand on the step eyeing me up and talking amongst themselves in excitable tones. This isn’t normal behaviour. One of the men even heads back across the street and squints at me from afar, framing me through his fingers. The woman closest knocks and I hear Sandra heading down the hallway.
“Hi, I’m Laura. I work for Film4. We’re shooting a film next week and we’re looking for a door just like this one. I know it’s a bit of a random request, but wondered if you’d be okay with us filming your front? We have some budget so it would be paid, of course!”
Sandra jumps at the opportunity. She always loves the attention I get and takes the flattery as a personal victory. Of course, I get no say in the matter. I’m pimped out for £150 and Channel 4 fame.
By the evening, Sandra will be famished since she only had a light lunch and the gruelling morning run. On a weekend, I know she doesn’t like to cook so I’m preparing myself for a visitor bearing delicious smelling food. As expected, at virtually 7pm on the dot, a Deliveroo rider pedals up to the front, leaves their bike resting against the wall and comes up and bangs on me. I resent the force which all Deliveroo riders seem to think is required for gaining the attention of residents. Even my door neighbours’ wince as he thumps my panels. Thankfully Sandra is ravenous, so she jumps to open me immediately, sparing me from a second rap.
Sandra takes the bins out in the evening, but for some reason she leaves them right next to me rather than out on the street. Not only does this leave me battling an awful stench with nowhere to run, but it attracts the local foxes. Tonight, a fox’s tail brushes against me as he scoops up some of the leftovers that spill out of the bin. Aside from the smell, it’s my favourite time of day. There’s peace and quiet, with no cameras being thrust upon me and I can just watch the hypnotic, flickering streetlamp, completely uninterrupted for hours. What a delight.
Until next time,
DOORCO’s creative consultant