Locked out

Last night was a bad night in many ways. I arrived home a little after 10:30pm, having left the house over 16 hours earlier. I’d had rough days at both Job No 1 and Job No 2, and then I’d had to feed my holidaying friend’s cat before I could go home. I was hungry, fed up and very, very tired. All I wanted to do was eat something, pack one box for storage and lapse into a coma for a few short hours before I’d have to start again.

I turned the key in the deadlock and tried to twist the handle on the front door … nothing. The real estate agent had shown a prospective tenant through the house that morning and had locked the lower lock on my front door, which I never normally do. Never mind, it’s the same key. I stuck the key in the lower lock and … nothing. I jiggled the key … nothing.

I did that thing you do when your brain can’t quite process the situation: I put the key back in my pocket, closed the screen door and started again. This is the human behavioural equivalent of rebooting a PC. I suddenly wonder if people did this before we all started using computers all day. Alas, the front door remained on a metaphorical blue screen of death.

Filled with a surge of frustrated energy, I almost punched the door, but despair sapped my strength before I broke my knuckles. It was the middle of the night and I was locked out of my house. I couldn’t feed the cats, get my medication, charge my phone, change my clothes, brush my teeth or do any of the many other things I needed to do before leaving to get back on the train in … oh, look … about seven hours.

Baffled by my strange rattling and cursing from outside the door the cats were going nuts in the window. Skid was scratching away at the door like she was trying to dig her way through it. I suddenly regretted the window locks and dead-bolts and various security features I’d installed to transform my modest little villa into an impregnable fortress. I would have given anything for the knowledge that I could jimmy the laundry window like I could when I was a kid. Now, all grown up and responsible, I was screwed.

If I’d had the property manager’s mobile number in my phone instead of on a business card on the dining table I might have called her right then and demanded that she get me back into my house within 10 mins or face the consequences. Instead, I rang Viv and begged with petulant self-pity to crash at her place for a few hours.

Like a good friend and loyal follower of my personal soap opera she cheerfully obliged, supplying a cup of tea, basic foodstuffs, the use of a jaffle iron, bathroom and camp bed, as well as a healthy dose of perspective. Now, with the benefit of a few hours sleep, I can sit here in yesterday’s suit and a borrowed shirt and, almost, see the funny side. If Viv ever needs a property agent she should definitely use mine. I’m sure you get a discount for having saved the agent’s life.