I hear a knock on the door!!!

Previously this would have been a major event in the day. In the week, come to think of it. A knock on the door would have been a prompt for an exciting leap into the air, followed by a scurry to see who my Mystery Visitor was.

That was then. I look up from my newspaper in some annoyance.

Between feeding, winding, hugging, clearing up poo, changing nappies, making up bottles, washing up, clearing up the bits of poo that I missed first time round, doing laundry and feeding again, I have very little time to do all those little things that make life bearable – reading the newspaper, listening to banjo music etc. Now some idiot is knocking on my door.

I put down my newspaper. Current affairs will have to wait. If it is that Lord Levy then I will tell him to piss off.

I throw open the door. Two ladies ask me how I am.

My guard shoots up like a Pete Doherty. In my experience, people do not go around knocking at other peoples’ doors to ask them how they are. In fact it is a pretty good rule in life that any stranger who starts a conversation by asking how you are is likely to be winding up into some form of pitch that will make the answer that you gave them everso slightly less true.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” I study them through bleary, sleepless eyes.

“Would you like to talk about the Bible?” one asks.

“I’m really busy…” I begin.

“Oh well, don’t worry,” she replies. “Do you not believe in God?”

“I…” I begin (again).

“You have a nice day.” And with that, cheerful and smiling, they are gone.

I stand there for a minute. As sales techniques go, this seems to be from the ‘auditioning for Sir Alan Sugar’ school, and I conclude that I have just been doorstepped by the two most rubbish Jehovah’s Witnesses in Britain.

Retreating indoors, I look in the mirror. I try to decide whether I look particularly heathen – to question whether, by taking one look at my depraved and amoral face, two middle-aged ladies could immediately conclude not only that I am not a regular churchgoer but that I am so far towards the ‘Satan’ end of the norm group that any form of spiritual rescue is out of the question. I can’t see it myself, although I appear to have a slight squint that might look demonic in a certain light.

It is slightly worrying. Baby Servalan starts crying. I give her a quick check for hooves before sticking the kettle on for a feed.