Funny thing: in an intimate if figurative way, you’ve actually let them inside the door. And they no longer want to be there. Usually.
The chap I liked most was the one who craned his neck – as if he might see the corpse on the carpet. He’s the one who will go far, I reckon.
I’m thinking about him right now. It’s not as if I don’t give my time to people. And hey: the electricity door knocker’s OK in my book.
Another funny thing: a good friend turning up at the door without warning is much more unsettling to me. He’ll see immediately your regret at having answered his knock. He’ll get the bugger-off vibe. Which is more trouble than it’s worth.
Funniest thing: a friend of a friend working their toes under your doormat I don’t mind so much. There’s always a reason that’s vaguely interesting. And you can cut things short.
Best of all was the friend of a friend who stood at the door with a dirty feather from an Australian white ibis held aloft as if it was the Olympic torch. Not high enough to show his armpits, I’m glad to say. He’s someone who wears singlets instead of shirts.
I wondered what he’d done to the ibis. Farmers like them because they eat locusts but city people whinge about the birds getting into garbage bins. I like them because of their curved bill and because when you get up very close or even handle one you find the skin on their featherless head is textured like an elephant’s skin.
“Guess where I got this?” said the friend of a friend.
“The fruit shop?”
“On the train! I saw it get off at Murrumbeena. You should write about that.”
And I would if people stopped turning up at the bloody door.