I bought new stationary. Pens lay scattered across the desk, even a simple choice of colour seemed impossible when it came to writing.  I jumped, frightfully, as the doorbell rang, interrupting the unproductive silence and causing me to jump so much as to knock the reams of paper on my desk flying. A sheet in every inconceivable colour flew through the air, a swarm of sheets buzzing towards the floor, eventually carpeting the whitewashed boards with a carpet reminiscent of a rag rug from a far off land.

My brain tousled with the idea of answering the door, however the idea of moving from my desk and breaking my cycle of procrastination was unbearable. It mustn’t have been that urgent, seen as there was no knock,as perhaps there would have been if the visitor, presuming the rusty old bell was merely a decoration, had made a second attempt to alert me of their presence. This made me curious. Why would someone climb up the unreliable wooden staircase to my flat, only to press the bell, pause and leave? 

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