Carole locked me in the house today.
I had to conduct all my business via the back door. Which sounds far ruder than it actually is.
What had happened was, for the first time ever, Carole went to work with my keys. And, just so she could be completely sure she’d be able to get in the house, she took her own keys as well.
Our keys do not look at all similar. Other than the fact that they are keys. There are massive differences. There’s really no excuse.
When I realised, as I came downstairs this morning, to unlock the door ready for an Amazon delivery, as well as to go outside and reseed the lawn, I went through all those stages you go through when you’ve lost something.
Was it even there in the first place, for example. Which had me mentally running through who had locked or unlocked the door yesterday, in what order and so on and so forth. Me, me and me. My keys were definitely the ones in the lock.
Then there was the frantic look around everywhere. They weren’t in the door. Nor were they where they usually are when they’re thrown, unwanted, to the carpet. Maybe they had been thrown with exuberance this morning, maybe they had been placed in a different location.
Well, technically yes. Carole’s handbag was certainly a different location.
As it happens, the Amazon delivery fit through the letterbox, so it was a bit of an anti-climax. I could have had stuff passed through the window but the fact that I had been out – the long way – to the front lawn this morning to treat it with grass feed and seed meant it couldn’t be walked on because it stains. Apparently. It doesn’t grow grass particularly well, we know that as we’re on the second application in as many weeks but hey ho, maybe the staining part was correct.
I had visions of the van pulling up and then me having to shout “coming!” to the guy, and the running round the back of our house and down the side of next door, avoiding all the abandoned bikes, footballs, wallets, bags of clothes, litter bins and broken mirrors on the way.
I’m glad I waited until he got to the door before setting off, otherwise I’d have just emerged from the side of the house as he drove away. And I wouldn’t know that he’d delivered, so I would have been chasing the van like a dog chasing cars (before, I I have learnt anything from the movies, they are inevitably caught by the pound). I’m not sure how well a Polish van driver would respond to a middle-aged fat person running after them.
Having said that, I’m not sure how a middle-aged fat person would respond to running after a Polish van driver.
Badly, I suspect.
She’s home now, though. I can use the front door freely.
Until tomorrow, at least. No keys have actually been returned to me.