Broke In

With apologies to regular readers for the long cliff-hanger I will pick up where I left off: Locked out of my house.

At 1 minute past opening time I called the office of my property manager to explain what had happened, complain about it and demand that it be fixed before I returned that night. As luck would have it I talked, not to my property manager, but to my friend Brent, who sells real estate in the same firm.

I explained what had happened. I even started to complain, but my heart just wasn't in it. It was friend Brent, after all. So I cut straight to the demanding that he ensure I could get directly into my house upon my return from Job No 2.

"No problem," said friend Brent. "I'll go and do it in 5 minutes. I'll call you if there are any problems."

I smiled, relaxed and started joking about my bad night with colleagues. Now that the disaster was over it actually did all seem quite funny. Friend Brent didn't call, so I assumed that there hadn't been any problems. I considered checking with him as I left for Job No 2, but decided there was no point. The door would be open when I returned and the simple pleasure of my own shower, bed and tootbrush awaited me there.

At about 9:15 pm, while waiting for a train home after job No 2, I received a text message from friend Brent: "What time do you get home tonight?"

Awwww, I thought to myself, he's going to drop around and apologise personally. I sent a text back "10:30 pm."

A message came back from close-personal-acquaintance Brent: "The door will be open by then."

My heart sank as I stepped onto the train. It would appear that there had been problems and some-bloke-I-met-at-a-party-once Brent had not called. I fretted quietly all the way home. I fed Nat's cat and then went to my own front door. I put the key in the lock and twisted the handle ... nothing. I jiggled the key ... nothing. I looked up and down the street but there was no sign of that-guy-looks-familiar Brent.

I took out my mobile and tried to call him but there was no answer. I sat on my front step in despair. I knew I wasn't going to break a window to get in because, considering just how bad my luck has been lately, the risk was extremely high that a burglar would take all my worldly goods before a glazier could fix it.

My mobile phone rang. It was never-seen-him-before-in-my-life-officer Brent. He was at the office but couldn't find the key register. I described my keys and he appeared at the door a few minutes later. Now, please remember, that I was by no means certain that the key on his keyring would definitely open the door. I thought it likely, because it was the original from which my key was copied, but that wouldn't help much if the lock was jammed ... as it turned out to be.

Now there were two of us standing on the front step, listening to the cats going crazy inside. That-bastard Brent did what all baffled young people do when they're having a crisis in the middle of the night. He rang his father.

"Dad, I need to break into a house."

I don't know what my father would say if I rang him a 11:45 pm and opened with this statement, but I like to think it wouldn't be "Do you have a legal right to enter the building?" I can't be sure, but I hope he would take that as a given. Brent's Dad didn't. Reassured that we had only the best intentions and God on our side, Brent's Dad asked a few questions and concluded that the best means of accessing the house was to remove some tiles from the roof and enter through the manhole in the kitchen ceiling.

Still on the phone Brent started taking off his cuff-links and rolling up the sleeves of his silk shirt. I watched, amused. There was no way that this model for David Jones business attire was going to clamber across roof-tiles. He was loosening his tie before he realised it himself. He paused for a moment. "Dad, how many beers have you had? Can you drive over here?"

We talked about the weather until Brent's Dad arrived at the house with a torch and a can-do attitude. We'd never met before, but he didn't waste any time on niceties. "Hello" he said, and climbed up onto the roof of the carport.

I'd never witnessed this type of housebreaking operation before. If Brent's Dad's performance was anything to judge by, I would not recommend this method for burglars in a hurry, or seeking to be unobtrusive. The racket was deafening. Apart from the singing, the clatter of the tiles being slung around the roof probably woke the entire neighbourhood who, it being after midnight, were decently asleep.

For the first five minutes I cringed at every crash or chorus from the roof, imagining packages of dog poo being inserted into my letterbox every day until I leave the country. However, after about 15 minutes, I started to have other questions. Like where were my neighbours? Someone is beating a hole in my roof in the middle of the night and no-one has come out for a look? In fact, where are the police? Shouldn't I have had to prove my identity and do some explaining to uniformed officers by this stage?

Finally, after almost half an hour of relentless heavy construction noises one of my neighbours came out of his back door. I was invisible, concealed by a blanket on the clothesline. Spotting Brent in the courtyard my neighbour said "Excuse me, mate, could you keep the noise down? You're waking my baby up."

Appalled, I stepped into the light. "Oh" said my neighbour. "I didn't realise you were there."

I was speechless. The reaction of this man to discovering a stranger breaking into my house was to ask him to do it quietly? Deciding that there was no value in expressing my disbelief, I apologised profusely and explained that I was locked out and that we would soon be finished disturbing his child's sleep with our midnight housebreaking. He wandered back inside and Brent and I stared at each other in mute astonishment for the remaining 5 minutes it took for the back door to open.

Brent's Dad, having achieved his mission, vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had arrived. I drank tea with all-sins-forgiven Brent and discussed this blog update. I know it was a long time coming folks, but I'm sure you'll agree it was worth the wait.

The truly insulting postscript to this story is that the following morning, as I left the house, I tried the key in the lower lock just out of curiosity. It worked perfectly. All the keys worked perfectly. It had just been jammed with disuse. I probably could have spat on the key and it would have worked. Sigh.

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.

Job No 2

As part of my efforts to prepare for a year of grinding poverty I have taken on a second job, cold calling for a mortgage broker. I finish work at Job No 1 each evening and then march across the city to start all over again.

Generally I have not found it to be unpleasant work. The boss is a nice guy who gave me some good advice about how best to structure my home loan while I’m away in the US. The other telemarketers are the usual mixed bag, but we do our best not to offend each other, and the shift supervisor quit at the end of my second week (note: no causal link), so I was quickly promoted and given a pay rise. It’s been good.

Last night, however, was a bad night. At the moment, in addition to the cold calling, the team are hand addressing envelopes for a mail-out and, with two of the team failing to show up, I sacrificed half of my calling time (which can lead to commissions) to addressing envelopes (which can lead to RSI).

I ended up not getting any leads at all, despite making a number of rather embarrassing calls. For example, I rang the homes of not one, not two, but three other mortgage brokers who, unsurprisingly, didn’t want one of our consultants to give them a call. One of them asked who does our aggregating and wanted me to get the boss to call him to see if there’s something they could do together. That’s right, last night I couldn’t get a lead, but I became a lead for one of the people I called!

Then, horror of horrors, I unknowingly called my ex-boss. She recognised my voice immediately and congratulated me on getting first class honours. We chatted for a while and talked about catching up for dinner soon. I wasn’t able to convince her to talk to a consultant. That’s right, last night I couldn’t shift a free mortgage reduction analysis to a friend!

Red-faced, I told the team that I’d just called my former manager. They agreed that was just about the most humiliating cold-calling experience you could have, with the possible exception of calling a former lover. None of them have ever done it, but it’s nice to know that there are still new lows left for me to sink to tonight.

On the train on the way home I experienced a mild outbreak of dissociative identity disorder as my supervisor personality counselled my telemarketer personality on a bad night’s work. I was gentle, but firm. “Another night like that,” I said to myself, “and I’ll have to let you go.”

“Another night like that” I retorted, “and I’ll quit!”

Progress Status: Graduated Honours Class 1

It gives me great pleasure to announce that I have completed my Bachelor of Social Science (Psychology) Honours degree with a grade of Class 1. That is, in case you're not sure, as good as it gets.

This happy news made me feel overwhelmingly ... relieved. I know it's a bit of a lacklustre emotional response but, let's be honest, no-one was really surprised by the news. You all expected it, even I expected it, and an utterly unsurprising positive outcome is always going to be a bit of an anti-climax for everybody. The expectation puts a natural limit on the excitement that it's possible to experience, so special thanks to everyone who remembered to say "Congratulations" before they said "I knew you would."

Totally unfairly, the high expectations that limit pleasure at meeting them do absolutely nothing to reduce the terrible, crushing, grinding terror that you might not. This is the great tragedy of chronic overachievement: success is experienced as a reduction in anxiety instead of an increase in happiness.

Having said all that ... YIPPEE!