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How many doorbells have you pressed in your life?

I must have pressed at least 30,000*. I can almost predict the tune or sound of the chime before my finger makes contact. When I hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a lightweight, metal door-knocker, my reflex wants to reach for an invisible bag, pull out two thin magazines, clear my throat and don a Hollywood smile.

‘Hello! Nice to find you in today!’

No, it’s not Betterware catalogues or double-glazing. It’s bringing the gift of Life.

A doorbell is pretty innocuous, right? A doorbell doesn’t come with a trigger warning. It’s an everyday sight, too ordinary to take up any room in our cluttered brains. To describe a doorbell would be like detailing the look of a plug or a USB cable. Too trivial for words.

And in my previous life (the world of my recent novel Oh, Sister), I would agree. There was nothing as ordinary as a doorbell. I spent time with them every weekend, hearing their peals and lengthy ding-dongs, sometimes pressing them again (after a pause, obv) if I saw a shadow behind the net curtain. Perhaps they didn’t hear! Then a quick shuffle down the path, tactfully understanding that they did not want me there (I hope they notice that I am taking care to walk on the path and not the grass, and look, householder, at how I close the gate - see how respectful I am! not like worldly people! - and on and on the mental gymnastics would go, trying to bear witness simply through my conduct and my immaculately (and v femininely)-presented self). Onto the next path that led up to the next. And so, repeat.

Then one day, I stopped pressing doorbells. I walked out through my own door and never returned. It closed behind me, or perhaps I slammed it myself, I’m still not sure, but there was some kind of leaving. No more stacks of thin magazines with my name on (or more likely, my husband’s name) at the literature counter to collect.