My policy has always been that if you feel you must knock then we are not close and I don’t want to see you. In almost every apartment I have ever had, the door is open, literally if not figuratively. In London, I had to lock the door, though, when my equally care-free South African friend and I shared in London. The chances were pretty good that we’d forget to lock the door, even at night. Since we lived in a building which required a code to get through the gates, then a key to get into the building. We were nearly at the top of the stairs so our theory was, if someone has gone to that much trouble to get in, they can have what they like. Sometimes I’d come home from work and the door to our flat would be flung wide open – my friend was always home, but the oven had its own ideas about cooking vs burning so, you know, ventilation and all.
Anyhow, there are to this day only a few number of people I know whom I could call on where I don’t just walk right in. And those people live in London and have locked doors for good reasons.
But when L’il Sis and I shared an apartment in Toronto, if ever someone knocked on the door we’d switch the lights out and be very very quiet. That building had a doorman who would just wave up our friends and other known associates who would then just walk into our apartment. This only backfired once or twice when they tried to walk into the wrong apartment. But no lasting damage was done.
My policy when I’m at The Mom’s is that I do not answer doors or telephones. Because everyone I know – literally from friends to landlords to office colleagues – knows that I will respond only to email or text message. Phones are for death or near-death crises and knocking on the door means you are either trying to sell me something I don’t want or are trying to convert me to your particular brand of Jesus. Either way, you do not want what’s behind Door Number One. Because it’s me, and now that I’ve been disturbed you will be required to withstand the full force of my ire and wrath. I may be small but I am vitriolic.
I find this new development of ordering things from tinternet to be unusual. I mean, I can see where Crazy D and L’il Sis are going with it, both are busy, not good in crowds or mall-type situations, so there’s a certain logic. And I have been known to order books online but that’s it. And those just get put through the slot in the door so I trip on them when I come home.
But since they were so keen on this new method of shopping and since I do not now live in London where I can go to actual shops where they might have actual things in actual sizes that will fit my tiny frame, I resorted last week to ordering a skirt from The Banana online. True, I could’ve taken the train into Bath to go to an actual shop, but that was a bit much for someone who loathes leaving the house.
So I ordered it. And waited. I had to have it delivered to my office because for reasons that are unclear the folk who deliver such things cannot gain entry to my building. Royal Mail can but apparently no one else. I cannot argue with this because one cannot argue with Royal Mail, it’s just not worth it.
My purchase arrived at work but I didn’t have time to open it until the end of the day whereupon I discovered that a) the colour was not the same as it had been on tinternet b) the texture was also not the same and c) the shape was a bit different. Thus it now has to be sent back which is a whole lot of hassle I’m not interested in.
People are constantly trying to convince me that this sort of new way of shopping is for the best, but I disagree. Not only is it a pain in the ass, and I don’t get what I want (and had I met this skirt in the shop I would’ve known instantly that I loathed it) but I now have to deal with more people to send it back.
I experience none of the excitement The Mom does in opening a new package as I assume the worst. Perhaps one must have a positive attitude and expect the best when dealing with this sort of thing. And I suppose the same must be true of people knocking on one’s door. Some people think strangers are friends they’ve not yet met. I am pretty sure they’re people I don’t like, don’t want to know and so I’ll continue to avoid answering the door.