No, I’m not blogging like a gangster rapper. ‘Rat-Tat-Tat-Tat’ refers to the sound my front door has been making a lot recently.

Firstly, Tuesday. Not once, not twice, but thrice did charity workers call round begging. Their first visit was during the afternoon when Claire, sleeping after a night shift, was awoken by their banging on the door. I think she told them to fuck off, before going back upstairs to sleep. They later returned when we were having our tea. We ignored it, only for them to return an hour later. This time I answered it. Like Claire, I too told was more then welcoming, telling them to “get to feck”. In the politest possible way, of course. It’s bad enough you have these people on the streets of Bath (many of whom, by the way, are on commission themselves) trying to get your bank account details. You don’t want it in your own home. Claire and I both donate to charity, but not when we’re forced to by some ‘C U Next Tuesday’ carrying a pen and clipboard on your doorstep.

The next day, my birthday and day off work, I was happily sat downstairs, watching Keeping Up Appearances on DVD (yup, I know how to live), while Claire slept off another night shift; when I heard BANG BANG BANG. No word of a lie, it sounded as if somebody was kicking the front door in. I made my way to the door as fast as I could, and tried to unlock it. I had not been out the house all morning and naturally assumed it was still locked from the night before. We have a bit of a dodgy lock on the front door and it sticks from time to time. The key wouldn’t work.by this point. Whoever was outside was getting inpatient and started ringing the doorbell. I started to swear. I then heard a voice from upstairs. It was Claire. “The door’s unlocked! I got back this morning!” What a stupid twat I am. I opened the door, without the need for a key. Surprisingly it wasn’t hanging off its hinges, despite it nearly being kicked in. Had the person at the front door been a charity worker, by this point, I think I would have thrust the clipboard down their throat and the pen into another orifice of theirs. Luckily no blood was spilt, nor clipboards damaged, as the person at the front door was the postman. Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat and his gurt big bat, used for bashing my door in! He had my train models and magazines I ordered last month. They were late. Quite fitting, considering they were trains. One of the trains was also broken, so that was another email to send. A replacement is being sent out, so the postman will no doubt be kicking the door in again in a couple of weeks to deliver that!