Some of this actually happened...

The woman sat in her zeta.  Compact and warm and surrounded by digital screens.  She clicked through her many door pictures and wondered if she could tell their stories.  Take the challenge.  Delve into her imagination every day for a month.  Hmm.. But remember last year?  It made her poorly.  It ruined her birthday.  She was drained by flu and evil lurgy’s and couldn’t even eat her birthday cookie.  But she’d achieved something.  A point.  A  period of self catharsis.  

Impulsive. The notion was actioned. 

She sat and she wrote and imagined.  She had many cups of tea in the process that all missed their optimum drinking temperature when she finally went to slurp them.  She drank them anyway and as she did she considered the doors opening before her.  

This could take her to a whole new world!  ‘The book of doors’, they’d call it.  Like a coffee table book. One of those books that you buy people just because it’s a little bit different and you can’t think of anything else because you’re all thunked out. 

“Oh what a lovely book!”  Johnathon would exclaim as he flicked through the pages whilst waiting for Madeleine to prepare a nice cup of tea and a bit of toasted muffin. 

“Yes, I got it as a gift.  Isn’t it cute?”  

“I think I must buy one for Meredith and Nathaniel and the jolly old chap at the greengrocers down the road.”  He’d say.

The book would become a talking piece of art and soon gather momentum.  It would fly off the shelves at Christmas time as the quirky little gift that you can buy for anyone. 

Soon they’d start to talk about her.  The door woman.  

“She can read doors you know..”

“She can? “  

They’d be calling her into the BBC newsroom to chat with Bill Turnbull on the delightful red couch about her doory story and the country would realise that there was a new messiah in their midst.   People would start to buy her door photographs too and she’d become so rich she would make origami cranes from £50 notes and send them through peoples letter boxes.  The world would get curious about the door reading woman and she’d be invited to America on chat shows where they would make sure they had proper tea and teacups that she could mark with her pretty red lipstick, as they discussed her insight.  The Americans would think she was barmy, except they don’t use that word. To them, that sounds like a sultry, summers afternoon and instead they would call her dorky.  “Doorky the door lady.  She’s so not Hollywood.”   But she wouldn’t care because she never cared if people missed her.  

Soon she would go all over the Globe.  She would become the new Doora the explorer.

The Chinese would insist that she Feng Shui their doors.

“Make it red.  Turn your whole house to the south.  Put doors in your roof and turn them into doormas!”  She would say as she dilly dallied in a long floaty frock with flowers in her hair. 

A whole range of doors would come out at B&Q  endorsed by her,  The Dalai of Doordom. They would call them “Door-anged”  and homes would be changing their front doors all over the land.  The townsfolk would call to her as she walked down the street,

 “Come, please come! ”  They’d call in their little frail voices.  “Tell me what’s going on behind my door.”  They’d plead,  “Tell me my future.”  They’d cry.

She’d get more Instagram followers and blog followers  and not because she was doing anything different but because now she was famous and that would somehow make her way more important.  Film stars would call her up and ask for her advice on their Beverly Hills doors so they could stay famous forever.  And they’d believe what she said because famous people are mental like that and buy into fads and crazy, bonkers behaviour. 

Then the world would ask about her door.  Her door would need to be SO good it would be impossible to find it.  She’d have to make a statement by having no door at all.  But then she may get stalked by doorkers and end up dead.  She’d be knock, knock, knocking on Heavens door and God would say “What do you think?” to his door.  She couldn’t lie because He would know.  She’d falter and God would say “I’m going to give you one more chance to find your reason for being.”  And that’s all He would say because God’s a bit ambiguous like that.

He’d zap her back to her little zeta, where she’d feel a bit dazed but know not why. Except for the fact she was always dazed about life and maybe it was that.  Her tea would be cold again even though she only made it a second ago and she would pull up her digital pages and continue to tell her stories.

How very pulp fiction.

“Who’s Zed?”

“Zed’s dead baby, Zed’s dead.”

Goodbye, I’m ended.  

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