The new utility room can be entered through any of three doors - one from the hall (yes, that's my washer and dryer, parked in the hall at present):
One from the garden (this door should be glazed and finished today):
and one from the kitchen.
The kitchen door itself is a battered but charming little affair, unless you're tall, in which case it becomes a head injury hazard.
It would be better if it fitted its opening.
Much chopped and changed over the years, it has to be replaced with another that will close properly, that reaches the floor, that opens the other way, that has clear glazing, that will take a cat flap, that has hinges that don't require packing with scraps of wood to sit flush.
I feel somewhat guilty about saying goodbye to this little old door, but am comforted by knowing that the sloping frame, without a right angle or a straight line to its name, will remain to remind me of how old this house really is.
The new door will match my favourite - the small narrow door that leads from the kitchen into the garden, that even I must stoop to use, and that will ensure that I never allow myself to become so wide that I can't get through it.
A weight-watcher's door.