That is a door, a mighty mighty door

This is the main door to my house.

It’s massive. What you can’t see is how thick and heavy it is. This is a door that would stand up to an assault by orcs armed with Grond. In the winter it’s the only door out of the house to a path cleared of snow, so you’re not getting in if we don’t let you.

The only problem is that not only is it heavy, but in the recent cold weather the shape of the frame has shifted and is clamping down on the door, so it massively resists movement. Right now, going out that door is a difficult enterprise, requiring that we grab that door knob and lean back with all our weight to pull it out; coming in requires turning the knob and bashing it with your shoulder. It really needs readjustment.

This prelude is to explain why I have sprained my wrist by trying to open a door. It was that door. Right now my wrist is swollen and bruised, changing colors — last night it was yellow and green, but today it’s more of a dark grey. Yes, it hurts. Why am I typing? I need to stop. Ouch. Bye.