Years ago in the backwater, where few of us were piano players but some had special dancing shoes (with genuine leather soles, for smooth, smooth moves), a live rendition of Green Door, first popularised by Jim Lowe and revived decades later by Shakin Stevens, was always an excuse to get up and dance with gay abandon with one’s partner of choice.
While it arguable whether anyone in our happy crowd managed footwork with anything like the aplomb of the original Mr Rubber Legs himself (Elvis, kids), more often than not, the song played to an encore immediately, and that got the party started.
When walking quite late at night about a month ago, I spotted a green door. complete with frame, discarded at the communal rubbish bins. Since I seemed to be the only one on the street, I managed a fair dance in my gardening boots for the three to four hundred metres remaining until I got home.
I rose early the next day, for the green door was not the only thing I needed to transport homeward by sheer woman-power. The wood was solid, the door heavy, and somewhat awkward to carry. Desire and determination achieved the goal by true dawn: the door is mine.
If I remember to borrow a drill tomorrow, I shall affix it as a gate to the long-neglected chicken run. The one wall—not unlike the song inspiring romance—is not quite straight, but I have a solution for that.
©2019 Allison Wright
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