The sanctity of doors

Quasi-parenthood is having a long, detailed conversation through the bathroom door about why some people are shy about using the bathroom and why, in particular, I’m using the downstairs toilet for my morning scan of the newspaper rather using the one upstairs, which, for some insane reason, is in the same volume as the master bedroom because of architectural stupidity and not, as should be the case, in a separate, enclosed, and well-ventilated space.

“So why are you using the downstairs bathroom?”

“Occasionally, dear heart, one enjoys a bit of privacy and time to briefly audit the affairs of the day.”

“But can’t you briefly audit the affairs of the day upstairs? What’s ‘audit’?”

“In this context, it means to read through sort of quickly, to get the gist of things.”

“But why are you in there?”

“Because I am shy about seated matters.”

“I’m bored.”

“Give me six minutes, please.”

“Can we make pancakes?”

“I’ll have to see if we have the ingredients when I am no longer indisposed, Sweet Pea.”

“But I’m borrrrrred.”

“You inhabit a home heavily laden with possibilities with which to challenge your youthful exuberance, dear heart.”

“You talk like British people when you’re pooping, Joebie.”

Well, one would, wouldn’t one?