The front door loomed ominously ahead of me. I could see the door knocker, an intricate design in brass. The windows either side were heavily curtained and nothing was visible through them.
No clue to who the occupants were, if the house was occupied at all. The path leading to the door was well kept and the front lawn short and tidy, a single bay tree, lollipop style stood to one side of the door.
Not symmetrical at all, one of my biggest aversions. The number of steps from the path to the door were odd, seven to be precise. Not even or fair. I went back to the gate and began my approach again, this time counting the number of strides it took me. Interestingly, there were 21, added together with the seven steps, it finally became a good, even number.
28, I looked at the door number, finally. The words twenty and eight were etched into slate, standing proud and clear.
Why had I come to this house? This house of conflicting numbers and unevenness.
Plucking up all the courage I could find, I slowly climbed the seven steps and lifted my arm to reach the knocker.
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