The bathmat had its own plans.

The bathmat travelled farther around my bathroom than I did. Every morning it had gathered itself into a different shape, usually in front of the door.

I had spent several evenings looking at photographs of bathrooms with wooden stools and carefully arranged branches. My own bathroom contained a radiator, a laundry basket and approximately enough floor for a person to turn around if the basket cooperated.

I bought a new towel. It was a good towel. It did nothing about the bathmat.

I dealt with the thing I kept stepping around.

One evening I put the shopping tabs away and looked at the room I actually had. The loose mat needed attention. The towel I wanted after a shower was always on the wrong hook. The laundry basket blocked the cupboard.

I checked the floor and backing, replaced the unsuitable mat with one that lay securely, and moved the basket outside while I used the room. I put a clean towel within easy reach.

None of this looked particularly interesting in a photograph. It did mean that getting ready for a shower no longer began with moving three objects and catching a door.

I left the branches at the shop.

Afterwards I sat in my bedroom with my hair in the good towel. The bathroom had taken less preparation than usual, which gave me more time to read before I felt sleepy.

My sister asked whether I had finished the bathroom makeover. I said yes. She looked through the doorway and asked what had changed.

I showed her the mat. She nodded with the serious expression people use when they are trying to appreciate a very small home improvement.

A week later she sent me a photograph of a hook she had moved in her kitchen. The caption said, "You were right about the boring things." I had never been more pleased to receive a picture of a hook.