Diary

Electric doors all over the universe

14 January 2010 | Diary

The guy with whom I share some office space often leaves his “silver bullet” pen behind. Apparently capable of writing both underwater and in outerspace, the bullet is a very silly and ostentatious piece of stationery, resembling a Cyberman suppository.

Never having a pen myself, I inevitably make use of the silver bullet in Steve’s absence. I’ve probably saved about 0.3p on ink so far. That’s cash in the bank, that is.

About to leave a local cafe today, I see a slightly manic-looking lady struggling with the electric door from the other side. She is seemingly played by Michelle Gomez from Green Wing and her stressed demeanour suggests, “Let me in! The vein in my head has stopped throbbing, which means I need coffee!”

The door is one of those wheelchair-accessible doors that requires you to hit a wall-mounted pad upon approaching. It causes much confusion, as I’ve seen in the past, partly because the pad will be significantly behind you by the time you reach the door and partly because there is an eye-level sign reading “Automatic Door”, which it isn’t.

I hit the pad on my side of the door to let the helpless lady in. The kooky door opens outwards and the woman, not seeing how I’d achieved such a miracle from so far away, shoots me an expression of gratitude and amazement. To her, I am a magical door-opening shaman. With a big cock, probably.

Needless to say, I decide to milk this for a bit

By way of explaining my door-opening powers, I produce the silver bullet from my suit pocket. “It’s easy with a Sonic Screwdriver!” I say, waving it back and forth.

People often say I would make a good Doctor Who. These people are correct. I would spend my twelfth incarnation TARDISing around, rescuing people from confusing electric doors all over the universe.

Instead of the “Oh, you dashing cad!” I had both expected and deserved, the lady’s expression of amazement melts into one of loathsome pity. Perhaps she doesn’t understand. I wave the silver bullet around in the air a little bit more. “Sonic Screwdriver?”

Her look is one of positive revulsion. Reflected in her eyes is a contemptible nerd with a pen.

I decide not to say “Sonic Screwdriver” for a third time or drop into a Doctor Who-themed breakdance, instead silently returning the pen to my pocket and leaving.



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