So really, what can I say? I’ve taken a photograph of a fine red door, framed by old brickwork. Yet when I look at it, I don’t just see a doorway. I think of Christmas dinners, laughter echoing through a warm house, the joy of discovery, and, above all, warmth.
Am I torn between Paris and London? Do I search the passing crowds, half expecting to glimpse a child asking for just a little more? Does my mind wander to young Pip and his unexpected rise in life? Or perhaps—just perhaps—behind that red door lies an old curiosity shop waiting to be explored.
All this from a photograph of a door?
Ah… but it is not just any door. It is the front door of Charles Dickens’s home.
And, for a short time, I was able to step through it.
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