The clock is ticking ominously. It’s eleven thirty on Sunday night. This column is due first thing Monday morning and all I have on the screen in front of me is an unruly assemblage of paragraphs gasping for C.P.R. I’ve just polished off a bowl of apple crumble with whipped cream in an attempt to soothe my ragged nerves. They remain ragged. I know how this sounds. You think it’s the result of lazy procrastination don’t you? It’s not. Honestly. This is what happened.
My kind ex-husband came to my place late this afternoon to install a door to my toilet. I suspect that the absence of a door to this particular room has disconcerted some of my guests. It may also have made me the subject of appalled gossip all over town. If so, I remain blissfully ignorant of the fact.
However, as I am not entirely unaware of the social niceties I have been looking forward to having a door on my toilet just like everybody else.