The postman knocked while I was cleaning the toilet

Dear Delyara, I was kneeling on the bathroom floor with bleach gloves on and heard the knock, followed by the quick impatient second knock that always makes me feel as if I’ve failed some test of being a normal available person. By the time I got to the door, he was already half turned away with the little red card in his hand. I know it’s silly, but moments like that make me feel trapped inside the least glamorous part of my own life. Not because cleaning is beneath me. Because domestic labour is so often invisible until it collides awkwardly with the outside world. Then suddenly you see yourself from the side — bleach gloves, damp hair, apologising to a stranger for taking too long to reach the front door of your own house. I took the card from him and said thank you as if none of this was emotionally ridiculous.