8.00 in the evening and Anna has gone to bed, Daisy with her, and I hoping she will sleep, as she is tired. The front door bell. I think it might be my son Dan, who was in a car accident yesterday. But it is one of those young men, unemployed, with a tray of cleaning materials for sale – our cupboards are bulging with them. I point at the notice on our front door –DOOR TO DOOR SALES? PLEASE DON’T RING.
‘Can you read, ‘ I say, for starters.
‘Yes, I can, sir, and can I explain, people sometimes move away …’
I interrupt. ‘The notice is for a reason. I am not just been unfriendly. I have an invalid here and I don’t want unnecessary calls.’
‘I didn’t know that …’
‘I’m telling you.’
‘ You’re not listening to me. The reason I rang is that people sometimes move away …
‘You’re not listening to me,’ I say.
‘Why are you shouting at me. Can’t you see it’s making me worse.’
‘I can,’ I say, and close the door.
‘Cunt,’ he says. ‘ I’ll send my friends round.’
Fortunately Anna has not woken up.
This is a meeting of different worlds – the angry disturbed young man, treading the streets, doing his best, I suppose, and the angry (disturbed?) old man, trying to protect his home as a sanctuary of a kind. I complain about social isolation but I still want to protect the boundary if I can. And it is strange to build a defensive wall with vulnerable people on both sides.