I’d love to see those smart-arses try their luck in this five-bed in Lisburn
If someone visits me at home, they need to get through the main door to the building and the private door to the flat itself. But those two doors aren’t equal. The latter is paper-thin. The people who usually knock at it are expected, buzzed through at the main entrance. Which might explain why I get spooked by Halloween, when stranger after stranger knocks.
Maybe it’s the trick or treaters themselves. There are the cute little ones who live in the building and, because they’re with Mummy, are unlikely to fuss when I dish up nuts and dried fruits, explaining that “the palm oil in chocolate is terrible for the planet”. That’s a win-win situation: they get treats and I know they’ll never visit me again.
Related: All the places I’ll never live: a flat without a whodunnit mystery
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