I step inside, letting the door thud shut: but it doesn't, it catches on a hastily discarded shoe and robs my entrance of the dramatic thunderclap of arrival. Also, the cat gets out, though at the time I don't realize the problems that will cause. I merely crave the sense of accomplishment and victory that accompanies a well closed door, the thud of shutting out the tinny whines of motorbikes, the yipping of overbred dogs, the bell of the ice cream man, the cacophony of ring tones and car horns and crosswalks and rumbling trucks and polite hellos to casual acquaintances that follows upon any excursion into the world, all suddenly muted by the proper thudding of a door into its frame.
Why doesn't Colin Firth, with that lovely rumbling voice, do audio books?
golden strengthening pureness of midwinter