It’s hard to move on. #writephoto has been stimulating nonsense from me for years and I will always be grateful to Sue Vincent for her wonderful back catalogue of pictures she used. But now, tide and time have denied her the luxury of continuing; instead K.L. Carey has taken on the mantle with Sue’s blessing and this image, a homage to Sue, is KL’s first prompt. And this piece of fluffery is the result. Your fault K.L…

‘What do you mean? It just appeared. Doors don’t “just appear”.’ Reginald Twart, fifteenth Baron Doobelderry of Much Havoque pointed his sword stick at Taut Muscell his gamekeeper. ‘I pay you to stop doors appearing willynilly across the estate.’ He waved in the vague direction of the line of roofs that indicated the beginnings of Much Havoque’s newly built estate of artisanal dwellings. ‘Good god, Taut. Allowing a door to take up residence without the proper formalities could lead to all sorts of incursions. Imagine if it opened? Any Tom, Dick or Harriet might emerge and then what?’ Reginald glanced at the door and shuddered. ‘Yes, just imagine what might be in there…’

Taut shuffled from hobnailed boot to hobnailed boot. ‘I’m sure your Lordship will enlighten me.’

‘I don’t think so, Taut. Were I enlighten you, where would that take us, eh? I’ve never given explanations to staff, not since the udder undulation of ‘05.’ Reginald shuddered at the memory.

‘What happened, my Lord?’

‘It’s answering questions that lost us India, Taut. When the sun never set on the Empire, did anyone explain why? No. It’s explaining that undermines ones upper lip quicker than Mrs Phalanx’s proprietary emetic. Suffice it to say I’ve not set my watch by the church clock since. What are you going to do with it?’

‘Do with it? I wasn’t planning on doing anything, my Lord. Well, apart from having a gander.’

‘You want to open it? Are you mad? You have to block it.’

‘I know it’s an inconvenience but is it really doing any harm? Begging your pardon and accepting his lordship knows best, of course.’

‘You must have a solution.’ Reggie had begun to sound rather desperate. ‘You always have a solution. That’s what makes you indispensable.’

Taut lifted his cap and scratched at his pink pate, sending a small squall of scabby skin toward the Baron. ‘We really should open it ourselves. See where it leads. It’s what doors are for. And it might pre-empt any invasion of Thomases, Richards and regiments of Harriets.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’ The scion of Much Havoque began to wring his hands.

‘Are you alright, my Lord? Is there something I should know?’

‘No. Yes. Probably. I told you explanations are dangerous things, especially in the wrong hands.’

‘Up to you, sir, but personally unless you know there’s some sort of poison or explosive behind that door, I’d open it, check to see if there’s a reason it’s here and if not… Then we can brick it in.’

‘Can’t we just brick it in without all the palaver of an opening?’

‘Well, if we don’t know why it’s there, it might come back. Like his lordship’s dropsy.’

‘I don’t know Taut…’

Taut Muscell hated indecision. Deciding the only way to break the impasse he stepped forward and yanked at the door handle. The ancient circular door swung open, revealing a formidable skeletal figure dressed in a white bonnet and a long black dress. The dread figure lifted a bony figure and pointed it at Reggie. ‘Come here, boy.’

Reginald turned ashen and looked like he wanted to run away. ‘Hello Nanny. I can explain.’

‘Oh I’m sure you can. Bricking me in wasn’t very clever, was it? Come on. Mr Spanky the paddle has a date with your breeches, young man.’

The fifteenth Baron bowed his head and shuffled towards the door, while the grotesque figure stood back to let him past. The harridan waited until he’d disappeared before eyeing Taut with a malevolent if empty eye socket. ‘Well?’

‘Er, what’s going on? What should I tell Her Ladyship?’

‘Didn’t you hear, him? Explanations never got anyone anywhere. Do you want to make Mr Spanky’s acquaintance?’

‘No, no.’

‘Quite.’ She stood back and slammed the door which immediately faded away.

Once more he scratched his head. Then he turned for the main house, whistling for his dog to follow. ‘Never did like Tuesdays.’