One autumn the wind blew so hard that it pushed the garden gate, which opens in to the back lane, over its rebate, sticking it fast. We were trapped.
I checked the chocolate biscuit supply and reckoned that so long as you didn't mind a walk, we could manage with just the front door and go along the main road.
The back gate was dodgy all winter, a constant menace as to whether, having let us out, it would let us back in.
Eventually, the weather turned and it was possible to take the gate off and repair it. While Mr Raft sawed and sanded and chamfered and drilled and glued and screwed, I made the tea.
Standing with a mug of tea and admiring his exemplary handiwork, I looked at the other end of the garden where the bushes grow.
That gate, the other gate, the secret gate, was working the whole time.