Whenever I put on my bathrobe I think about George Orwell.
There's a line in one of his essays that I read in my misspelled youth. It says that whenever Sherlock Holmes wanted to think he put his dressing gown on.
Usually, whenever I am woken in this brutal fashion, unless I've been on a real bender the night before, it's the postman with a letter that needs signing for.
I like to think, as I open the door, that I cut a Holmesian figure of concentrated thought and intelligence. That the postman will obviously realise that he's in the presence of a great philosopher and gentleman and that he will involuntarily but automatically tug on his forelock and mumble a humble apology for interrupting a man who was clearly meditating upon great and valuable work.
I opened the door a fraction. The light was blinding. I did my best to see through eyes still gummed with sleep. My hair was all stood up on end and a field of stubble had grown across my face. My toe throbbed. I looked down and noticed that I was wearing odd socks. The sock on the left was black and decorated with gold stars. The one on the right was made of blue and white hoops. It also had a hole that let my big toe through.
I began to suspect that the postman wouldn't confuse me with a particularly slow-witted Doctor Watson who had turned to drink, never mind Sherlock Holmes.
Then, with a burst of Holmes-like deduction, I swiftly deduced that whoever was on the other side of the door couldn't be a postman. Today was Sunday!
But who on earth could it be, knocking at this unearthly hour?