I am very stupid
I got home tonight at the very reasonable time of 6.15. It's the earliest I have been home this week and I was very excited about not having to plan for tomorrow, watching some crap tv and going to bed early. I changed into my pyjamas as soon as I got in because it is my favourite thing to do.
But I was out of loo roll.
I grabbed a couple of quid from my bag and popped over to the shop to pick some up. Waiting in the queue, I jangled my change in my hand.
And nearly threw up all over the floor.
My keys were not jangling. The money was jangling but the keys were not jangling. Why were the keys not jangling? Because the keys were on the other side of my front door, locked on the inside of an impenetrable box. I, in my wisdom, have not got around to taking my spare key to Phil and Kate's, so it too was stored safely in the kitchen drawer.
There is nothing worse than that whoosh of realisation: it is a hot flush, tingling-electric skin, hammering heart, prickling fingers, waves of nausea feeling as you realise you're predicament:
I was wandering around Loughborough Jct, in my pyjamas and sandals, white as a sheet, with absolutely no way to communicate with anyone, at 6.30 on a Thursday evening.
For a while the only number I could remember was Transport for London. Looping through my mind was 'I'm going to Tunisia tomorrow and I'm locked out in my pyjamas. How am I going to get there?'
Anyhow, after a reverse charge call to my mum and the wonderfulness of Spice of India (if you live South of the River, make them you're curry house of choice: they are truly amazing) who saved my life, I arranged for a locksmith to come and sort it out.
Cue: waves of nausea number 2. He broke into my house with quite astonishing ease. By sticking a kind of clamp through the letter box, he just flicked the lock down and pushed open the door. While I am grateful for the service (in spite of the ninety-odd quid it cost me), it has made me certain that I will never be leaving my house without deadlocking it again.
But I was out of loo roll.
I grabbed a couple of quid from my bag and popped over to the shop to pick some up. Waiting in the queue, I jangled my change in my hand.
And nearly threw up all over the floor.
My keys were not jangling. The money was jangling but the keys were not jangling. Why were the keys not jangling? Because the keys were on the other side of my front door, locked on the inside of an impenetrable box. I, in my wisdom, have not got around to taking my spare key to Phil and Kate's, so it too was stored safely in the kitchen drawer.
There is nothing worse than that whoosh of realisation: it is a hot flush, tingling-electric skin, hammering heart, prickling fingers, waves of nausea feeling as you realise you're predicament:
I was wandering around Loughborough Jct, in my pyjamas and sandals, white as a sheet, with absolutely no way to communicate with anyone, at 6.30 on a Thursday evening.
For a while the only number I could remember was Transport for London. Looping through my mind was 'I'm going to Tunisia tomorrow and I'm locked out in my pyjamas. How am I going to get there?'
Anyhow, after a reverse charge call to my mum and the wonderfulness of Spice of India (if you live South of the River, make them you're curry house of choice: they are truly amazing) who saved my life, I arranged for a locksmith to come and sort it out.
Cue: waves of nausea number 2. He broke into my house with quite astonishing ease. By sticking a kind of clamp through the letter box, he just flicked the lock down and pushed open the door. While I am grateful for the service (in spite of the ninety-odd quid it cost me), it has made me certain that I will never be leaving my house without deadlocking it again.