Sitting in a taxi, idly glancing as we slip past door after door and streets broad and narrow.
Past road works and traffic jams hindering our carefully timed arrival.
A thought gathered pace: nearby town houses are arranged in tightly spaced terraces with concreted front gardens for cars. Or towering in high-rise homes, hoping the lifts will keep functioning.
Each door has an individual invitation, stamped and decorated with the owner’s taste.
Unless they are rented from an estate, then no choice is allowed as they march uniformly in the obligatory regimented line.
Gathering speed, we slip to the edge of town, the houses larger and further apart, with gardens colourfully manicured, stand proud. Till finally the countryside comes into view, revealing farms, wide open spaces, with tucked-away small hamlets and villages, appearing to stretch the view and senses.
On our way back, I wondered, who lived behind the closed doors?
Just because a house looked grand, even elegant with a dark green, shiny painted door, with a brilliantly polished brass door knocker and letter box. With curtains beautifully draped, all inviting a second look.
It may hide a family in terror of abuse, or awaiting financial ruin and unseen unhappiness.
Yet to the outside observer, it is to be envied. “Wish I could live in a house like that, lucky people.”
Other houses looking tired, even neglected, can contain an older couple, waiting to say goodbye to all they hold dear.
Or a family living in amazing happiness, on limited means, yet sharing what they have with others in the neighbourhood.
It is hard to know what goes on behind closed doors.
©️2026 Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Photo by LPD Carolina
