Over the last few months my front door has had more knocks than Donald Trump. Visitors have ranged from a middle-aged woman in a rumpled suit (who desperately needed a good haircut), to a hairless gorilla demanding I show him proof of ID. While it’s a delight to meet new people it unfortunately isn’t me they are interested in. They want Gary.
Now I don’t know a Gary, never have done. He certainly doesn’t live with me and, last time I looked, he’s not hiding in the shed or greenhouse. From the less than warm and welcoming demeanour of my uninvited visitors I’m guessing they are not looking for Gary to deliver him good news, meals on wheels or a kissagram.
Turns out sat nav confusion is driving these people to my front door .. shame it can’t be harnessed to social media so I can pick up a few more followers! I’ve now worked out that we share the same door number but he’s around the corner on a different street. Knowing this came in helpful last night when a bang on the door revealed a policeman standing in the dark. My heart sank to my fluffy slippers – you always think the worst when the police appear presumably to deliver bad news, they just have that pessimistic look about them. “Is Gary in?” he asked as I peered through the dimpled glass trying not to look guilty of anything (I’m a good girl and will be telling Santa this for the next 2 months). “You’ve got the wrong address” I shouted helpfully – wonder how many times he’s heard that one ..
I pass by Gary’s house when I walk Harveyhound around the block for his twice daily sniffathon. It did start me thinking what he might have been up to. I look up at his window and wonder if he’s hiding behind dimpled glass with his own fluffy slippers on, waiting for the next knock at the door.