“I’ve got a good idea for that doorway,” I muse.

The LTLP scrutinises me, adopting the expression that she uses to wither the ground elder. “I can already tell,” she drawls, “that this is going to be the most ridiculous thing that you’ve ever suggested in your life.”

I am stung by her barbed comment. “That’s a bit unfair,” I protest.

“Go on then. Tell me your good idea.”

The doorway into our bedroom is square and chunky, and only around five foot tall. In fact it’s less a doorway than an opening. It aspires to doorway status.

“I was thinking about the fact that I haven’t got a Scooby Doo bookcase any more,” I explain. (I used to have a bookcase that opened out on hinges to reveal a secret room beyond, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons. It was the best thing ever.) “So I was thinking…”

“Yes…?”

“Well, if I got some wardrobe doors, I could sort of build a wardrobe-looking thing in the doorway. But it wouldn’t really be a wardrobe. It would be our bedroom. So to get into our bedroom you would walk through the wardrobe.”

She gives a sharp intake of breath.

“Like in Narnia,” I add, by way of explanation.

“Then,” I continue, “when people came to stay and we showed them round, we could pretend that it is just a wardrobe. And when we went to bed they would think ‘why are they climbing into the wardrobe?’ and we would say ‘aha!’ and they would be amazed and astonished when they discovered there was a whole room beyond.”

“Like in Narnia,” I add, to fill the endless silence that follows.