So The Boy and I decided to take a Saturday night constitutional to pick up some fresh naan to go with dinner. Large parts of the stroll were taken up with admiration of front doors far superior to ours, dreaming of a day when we could afford to replace the foulio-ness our flat calls a door (I told you: this is a blog about what happens after the wedding. Much as I'd love to say we spend our free time swinging from chandeliers and discussing the metaphysicals, naan breads and doors is how we roll).
Anyway, rounding the corner about two streets from home, what should we find, but a door.
We found a door! In pretty good nick, being given away, propped sideways against someone's front fence. It even had the keys poking out of the lock.
And so came the dilemma. The thing was clearly a give away, but etiquette, surely, would say knock and check first. NO WAY, said The Boy. Too embarrassing. Can't do it. Let's wait for it to get dark and come back with the car. NO WAY, I said. What if they see - it'll be mortifying.
So we waited for it to get dark and came back with the car. Back seat down, ready for our quick getaway.
'Cept we hadn't bargained on how huge doors really are. The effing boot wouldn't close. 'DRIVE SLOW', said The Boy, pulling it down as far it would go.' It's illegal to drive with the boot open,' (he's so law abiding, bless him). But at every pot hole, every corner, every speed bump, the bloody thing flew open and the poor Boy had to leap out, part-close it, then jump back in. After a while he gave up and ran along behind me, holding it down.
So now we have a new front door (well, it's lying in our hallway waiting to be resized, furnished and hung)...and I feel like it's stolen. Every time I look at it I feel a bit sick. Oh how I wish we'd knocked.
Now the argument's moved to paint finishes.
I say blue.
He says black.
What say you?
