It’s dark as I get out of a taxi outside my apartment block and fumble in my bag for my keys. The wind is picking up and whistling through the trees, showering leaves and other detritus all over the street. It has started to rain and it’s that thick, heavy, icy-cold kind of a rain that stings when it lands on your skin. I’m almost tempted just to pour everything out of my bag onto the wet ground to find my keys quicker, but luckily my hand brushes against them and I pull them out.

It’s only when I go to put them in the front door that I notice it’s already ajar.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I swear under my breath.

I’ll have to leave another passive-aggressive note on the communal noticeboard in the hall about this. Surely it’s not that difficult to double-check that a door has actually closed tight behind you as you leave. They might as well issue an open invitation to burglars and street drinkers to come on in and make themselves at home. I’m cold and tired, and in no form for people who can’t perform the simplest of tasks. My mood worsens.

I just want to be in my flat, under a hot shower, before slipping into warm pyjamas and pouring myself a glass of wine. I try to focus on that and not my annoyance at the open door as I climb the stairs to my flat, which just so happens to be on the top floor of the four-storey building. I only ever use the lift when I’m weighed down with shopping. The rest of the time I allow myself a smugness at choosing the healthy option. There’s a satisfying ache in my calf muscles as I reach the top of the stairs and turn down the corridor towards my own front door.

Except the motion-activated lighting, which should automatically switch on when I enter the corridor, doesn’t click on. I swear again. That’s another thing I’ll have to speak to the management committee about. Although I shouldn’t need to. I pay hefty enough fees for the upkeep of the communal spaces. I use the torch on my phone to illuminate the short distance to my front door which, I realise quickly, is ajar, too.