There’s nothing I hate more than people who don’t give you enough time to answer the door before ringing the bell again. Because of this, I’ve been standing on the doorstep of my friend’s North London house for many long minutes, wondering how soon is too soon to ring again.

In the end I do it, because it’s starting to rain. No one answers, giving me plenty of time to get damp and observe the new hole in the glass panel of the door. Finally, I haul out my phone and call my friend. Instantly, he opens the door.

«I’m sorry! The doorbell’s broken!», he says unnecessarily, giving me a large gin and a towel. As I dry my hair, he gives me a guided tour. From tomorrow, I’ll be in sole charge.

There’s nothing so strange as other people’s houses. Even if they appear quite normal, once you’re inside you need a map to navigate around the oddities. I’ve looked after this particular house many times before but every year it’s developed a whole new set of quirks.

Quaffing gin, exuding bonhomie, Tony shows me what’s new, and what’s newly broken. New washing machine: wonderful! Last year this was a problem area, necessitating buckets, mops, and trips to the Laundromat. New remote-controlled garden lighting? Not quite so wonderful. «Don’t ever push this button», says Tony, holding the remote as if it’s made of crystal. «This will short-circuit the whole house.» I make a mental note a) not to touch the remote, and b) never to hire an English electrician.

«Then there’s the door», says Tony.«As you already know the doorbell’s stopped working. And there’s also the hole...» He slaps some masking tape over this. Now the door looks like a kid with a Band-Aid.

I’ve often realised how annoying a doorbell can be but never that it’s essential, nor how pleasant it is to have a door which other people can’t peer through. Many visitors – postmen, salesmen, door-to-door collectors – peel off the tape and shout through the hole. «I can see you!» one man cries, staring through the letter-slot to where I’m hiding behind the bookshelf at the end of the hallway. «Open the door!»
 
One day, as I jump down the stairs to answer a thunderous knock on the door, a strange noise starts. It comes from a white box high on the wall, with dusty wires leading ominously towards the front door. The doorbell has been jolted into death-throes. It’s trying to ring one last time before giving up forever.

The noise is phenomenal. Not a bold brrring, nor a pleasant chime, but more of a deafening drone, like a desperate goose with something stuck in its windpipe. How ironic! Wishing for a doorbell that would start working, now I’ve got one that won’t stop.

I consider various course of action. Cutting the wires and electrocuting myself; calling the electrician who installed the faulty garden lights, who will probably electrocute both of us. Wearing ear plugs for the rest of the week. Putting on a short dress and enlisting the help of the builders next-door on the shameful excuse of being a Lone Female in Someone Else’s House.
 
I try one last thing – jumping down the stairs again. The buzzing stops. Silence has never sounded so beautiful. I tiptoe about for the rest of the week.