I had not thought much about them, but prompted by the book I am reading L'Elégance du Hérisson, a quirky, new novel by Muriel Barbery, I declare myself a supporter of the principle. As one of the characters puts it, conventional doors "..transform rooms most untidily. We bump into them when they are open and introduce clumsy gaps with poor proportions. When you think about it, there is nothing uglier than an open door. The sliding door creates no obstacle. When it is open, two rooms communicate with out offence. And when it is closed it restores its integrity to each of them."
To have sliding doors, of course, you need, I suppose, to build a new house, a bit of a dampener where I am concerned.
Outside the Compasses, where I am enjoying a pint and, Heidi a Pinot Grigio, a man of our generation joins us for a smoke. The conversation turns to cooking. "I'd rather spend an hour cooking a meal, " he says, " than buying that ready made ....", he pauses, "shit," says Heidi. "I was going to use that word says our friend, " but it seemed ungentlemanly." "Never mind, " says Heidi, " I'm a foreigner and I can get away with it."
One or two wild strawberry plants have always grown in a sloping bed next to our front door. Today, January 29, I notice that one them is bearing an almost ripe fruit.