When I was a child I had trouble spelling the word 'eighth' (it still doesn't look right to me); when I was a teenager I had trouble getting served; when I was in my twenties I had trouble with men; and now I've lurched into my thirties I seem to be having trouble with doors.

It's like a wire has come loose in my brain or something. I see a door, I remember vaguely what it is for, but I just can't seem to get a handle on how to work the damn thing.

While most of my equally ancient chums are struggling to work out how to switch on their new iPod (bashing it against a wall appears to be their favoured method), I am struggling to open doors without:

a) hitting myself in the face

b) maiming a passing stranger with a flying knob (keep it clean please)

c) making myself look like a buffoon of Frank Spencer proportions.

To push a pull door once is an easy mistake to make of course, as indeed is pulling a push door.

But to repeatedly push a pull door, and vice versa, is bordering on mental illness. Which is probably why the staff at my bank now have a strait-jacket on hand whenever I'm known to be in the vicinity.

As I write this I can't for the life of me remember whether the door at the bank is of the push or pull variety.

All I know is that I always get it wrong. Always. Without exception.

I am now of course looking into phone banking. It's just a pity that the Co-op doesn't do phone shopping.

That would have saved me more door-related embarrassment.

I often pop into my local Co-op for a pint of milk and a copy of the Beano (I live with a six-year-old Dennis the Menace fan) and, until my last visit, the door had always been open. This time, however, it was shut and I, for reasons I can't explain, assumed it was an automatic door. So I stood there. And I stood there. Then I jumped up and down a bit in case the sensor wasn't registering my presence (fat chance).

And I stood there for a bit longer until a teenage boy breezed past me, pushed the door open with a brisk shove and let it swing back in my face. Being the strong, confident woman that I am, I slunk away in shame, milkless, Beanoless and without a shred of dignity left. Which is just as well really because there was worse to come.

Next on my list of chores was to return a DVD (Orange County, in case you were wondering).

Luckily the DVD shop is just a couple of doors down from the Co-op, so I was outside the door in a matter of moments. And there I stayed. After frantically rattling, pushing, pulling and, I'm ashamed to admit it, kicking the door for the best part of five minutes, I ended up having to shout through the letterbox to beg the girl behind the counter to stop the important work she was doing (biting her nails and watching Shrek 2) and let me in.

"It sticks a bit," she said, sashaying back to her lair. "Give it a good shove next time. Oh, and you might like to try to actually bringing the DVD back and not just the box."

I thought I had a good 40 years or so before senility set in, but it seems I was wrong.

And the worst thing is that when I'm knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door, I just know I'll hear St Peter's voice bellowing from the other side: "For God's sake woman, pull it."

Updated: 10:52 Monday, July 04, 2005