Tuesday and roses and coffee and a chance encounter near a sewing machine where my moustaches drooped that time and you said I was weird and I decided you meant quirky and then I held that word – quirky – against you.

I work in a team of nine people – editors, copyeditors, writers, an art director – and we are currently trying to work out exactly what it is that we want to offer the business we work for. We all have our particular skills but when we all work together, it tends to be in the service of creating compelling narratives about or for our employer. Stories, in other words.

The key

What do you open? A door, of course; an ordinary door, an unimportant door that leads to a walled garden of roses, opened only on Wednesdays.

We had an away day recently to talk about what stories we want to tell and how we can best make use of our combined story-telling skills. Part of the day included a writing exercise in which we first wrote for a minute or so, I think – just writing, anything that came into our heads. My minute’s worth is at the top of this post.

Who owns you? A woman and a man and the door, I suppose.

Then we had to choose an object from a collection of things on the table. We had to come up with three or more questions to ask this object, and then we had to provide its answers. I chose a key.

What are you worth? I am not the only key – I have a number of twins or triplets or clones. If one of us is lost, nothing much changes. If all are lost, the garden is closed, the roses unsmelled, the thorns unblooded, the path untrod, the relationship neglected. The walls would eventually crumble and only the locked door would remain, keeping no gate, defining no boundary.