My Life as a Boozy Oaf

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Automatic Doors

Doors may not strike any of the three of you who read this as terribly exciting but as a man who once was scared stupid when a door snuck up on him, I like to pay attention to them.

Recently the phenomenon of the automatic door has come forcefully to my attention. Having moved to a slightly more civilised part of the world my train in the morning no longer is of the old slam door variety. While this has allowed me to sit down with confidence and doze off safe in the knowledge that what I am leaning on is not about to swing open and send me flying to an early, and probably someone elses, grave in Brookwood Cemetary, it has introduced some new problems. For instance, should I find myself by the doors as the train comes in to the station I feel a horrible wave of social responsibility wash over me. It is like the eyes of every commuter is upon me, just waiting for the slightest hesitation in pressing that button to allow them to mutter about missing their connection, thus not getting home in time, thus finding their dinner in the cat, their significant other in the arms of the milkman and their winning Lottery ticket in the bin. Still, at least the seats are comfier.

However doors on trains are not what has caused me the most bother of late. It is the automatic doors at work. There are a large number of these but they all operate in different ways. Some have motion/infrared sensors, some large buttons and some ye olde fashionede handlese. So sometimes I can approach the door, gesticulate in my best Magneto stylee and watch it glide open. Other times I have to pull the handle if I remember. And that is the rub, why are they all different? Why are not all of them automated? Why can I not spot the sign that says this particular one is or is not automated? And most importantly of all, why do I keep walking into doors while waving my hands around like a comic book character?

Next time- Elastoplast, an indepth study of the most efficient way to fit one on a nose

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