Perhaps instead of jamming into the shoe-rack, the front door could meet a buffer of coats and jackets. I'll still have to sidle in, shut the door behind me with my foot, reverse, and then slip out of my rucksack though. The usual palaver. Oh, and not to mention snatching the half-shredded Midweek Chronicle from the teeth of the letterbox.
It's noisy in here - the same acoustics as an airport terminal, or a municipal swimming pool (without the splashing). Cups clink and cutlery clatters into the plastic trays, kids' voices giggle up above the hum of adult chatter and coughing. It's not the sound of Silent Saturday anyhow.
I've said before that I really like this day of silence before Easter Sunday. It carries such a profound sense of anticipation, of waiting, of hope. Nobody knows quite what to do in the deep unknown chasm that follows Good Friday. Nothing is certain, nothing is real. The rain tumbles into the sea and the grey clouds swirl above the mountains. Heaven holds its breath.
I'm reminded that this is the tension I live in - even here, in noisy old Stockholmhaven: waiting for something to happen, for the final fulfilment of everything he told us to be true, for things to be real and alive. Here in this silence, I must perfect the art of waiting. It's the day for Level 2 Patience.
Anyway, I also need a thing to hang my coats on. So I should probably go and sort that out.
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