SHUT THAT DOOR

I stood at the top of the stairs in my pyjamas and I gazed open-mouthed for a while. The front door was swinging in the breeze.

I hadn't just slept with it unlocked again; this time, for the whole night, I had slept with the door actually open, and I mean wide open!

Who does that?

I checked that my work laptop was still here (it was). I counted my shoes (even number) and then sat on the bottom step, slapping my head with the palm of my hand.

How in the world did I get this absent-minded? I mean anything could have happened last night: axe-murderers, thieves and local cats could have wandered in, randomly stolen my stuff, murdered me in my sleep and defecated all over my carpet.

Well, obviously local cats could only have done one of those things. And even that doesn't bear thinking about.

Do you think angels make up for our stupidity? I mean, I'd like to think that maybe a seven-foot seraphim stood in my doorway last night and looked after my shoe-rack and laptop bag, but it wasn't exactly not my fault. The angels would have been quite within their duty to have said:

"You're not going to believe what this bozo's done again. I mean we keep finding his keys for him, sorting out parking spaces and clearing the traffic. Now he expects us to guard his poxy hallway? I mean, really! Right next time, click the door shut behind you and get back to harp practice."

Tonight I have double-locked the door and hidden my laptop bag. I think I need a post-it note somewhere reminding me that there are some things I just can't leave to the angels.