By Vicki Arnott
The door slammed. Reminding Ann, once again, that the door-closer needed adjusting. She was sure that the wretched thing had been sent from hell to torment her. She had been up and down the ladder to turn the little knob one way and then back the other, more times than she could now recall. It seemed to have only two setting options. Either slam with the force of an atomic percussion wave, or creep at the pace of growing grass. She hauled out the ladder and made the climb, with screwdriver in hand. She was poised to make the micrometre adjustment when an unsuspecting customer burst in. The door connected with the ladder, shunting it forward. Ann toppled backward.
Two weeks later, Ann, with plaster-encased arm supported by sling, stood in her shop and surveyed the newly installed automatic sliding door with satisfaction. She stepped purposefully towards the door. The infra-red beam detected her movement. The door commenced its smooth opening glide. Three-quarters of the way through this process an un-nerving screech pierced the air. Ann’s happy smile froze upon her face. The door was stuck.