For someone who loves people, I am surprisingly anti-social. Given the choice between staying in or going out, I’ll take the roaring fire and a good book over a crowded wine bar any day. I have never yet been on my own for so long it becomes lonely, and I can’t imagine when that time would come. A few days? A week? A month? I like my own company, and I have more than enough characters and stories in my head to not notice the time ticking by.
When I’m in my own house I like to batten down the hatches, knowing that regardless of the outside world, whatever happens inside is down to me. I wear pyjamas if I wish; work in bed if I wish; close the curtains and dance around naked if I wish. It’s my choice. The life of a work-at-home freelancer is an interrupted one, and I learned very quickly to ignore the phone if I want to get anything done. But I am incapable of ignoring the door. I have a teenager’s delight for unsolicited post, and fondly imagine each knock to herald the arrival of an Interflora delivery, or a parcel full of books. It rarely is, and so I pass the time of day with the UPS man, while I sign for next door’s Amazon order, cursing myself for giving in once again.
I accept these day-time errand boys: it’s a working day, after all. But come 6pm, when the night draws in, and the house winds down towards story-time and baths, I am fiercely protective of my castle. Yet it is of course now that the real door knockers come out: flogging dusters and sob stories, or trying to blackmail me for three pounds a month. As we limp towards local elections, political canvassers pass each other on the street, trudging from door to door with a fixed smile on their faces. The intrusion angers me so much I mentally blacklist their party. I know I should admire their tenacity: I know I should think their proactivity laudable, and listen intently to whatever today’s door-knocker is selling. But if an Englishman’s home is their castle, mine has a ‘keep out’ sign painted on the drawbridge.
I should add that it’s only sales reps, politicians and chuggers who are made unwelcome round my way. Turn up with a pack of chocolate Hobnobs and I’ll gladly put the kettle on.
Oh, but maybe give me a ring first, yes?