It's hard to look nonchalent when you're on top of a bin

I’ve actually been someone productive at work the last couple of days. This is probably the first time in 2008 that I could honestly say such a thing. Seeing as we’re now approaching mid-February this is possibly not something to be proud of.

However, it would appear that ‘The Man’ is doing everything in his power to restrict me in my productive streak and return me to my ‘wishing my life away’ state.

I know this because I spent the last half hour of a meeting that had already taken up 57 minutes of my life (I counted) discussing access and drainage issues in regards to Building Regulations and Planning.

Things I know about access and drainage? Nothing.

Things I WANT to know about access and drainage? N-O-T-H-I-N-G

Things I now know about access and drainage? Pretty much nothing. I can work a pretty good daydream in times of strife. Literally HOURS have been whiled away as I spend time in a reverie. I’ve become a bit obsessed with Hannah Spearritt’s hair in recent weeks. I love white blond hair and her white blond locks are particularly fabulous. My mum even told me off yesterday for mentioning it too much. I can’t help it. I’m thinking about it a lot. That and falafel. Falafel thoughts are occupying me no end of late.

However, despite Hannah’s hair and Israeli national dishes keeping me sane I figure I’ve paid enough penance to write a blog entry at work. So that’s what I’m going to do.

The day I locked myself out of my house
*what follows is based on true events*

The day I locked myself out of my house was 12 hours after my parents had gone on holiday. Before they left we joked about the wild parties I’d be throwing (apparently they think they’ve raised a daughter who lives her life according to the rules laid down in Animal House), the non-clearing up after myself I’d be doing, the irresponsible acts I’d be performing when not under the watchful parental gaze. The fact that I spent three of the last four years not living at home and I am 25 years old seems to have escaped their attention. I mean, we all know it’s just part of the banter my family indulges in (FYI if you meet me and I’m mean to you, that means I like you. It’s how I’ve been taught to show affection) but there is a kernel of truth in the non-trust my mother and step-father have in me. I’m not an untrustworthy person. I’m not the person you wait to see how and when they’re going to fuck everything up (well, not unless it’s got something to do with my love life). For the most part, I'm Captain Sensible (no, not that one).

Yet, I say that, and then 12 hours after my parents go on holiday I lock myself out of my house.

Despite my love of stuff I have a pretty free-and-easy hippy attitude when it comes to looking after the stuff I own. I have things and sometimes I leave things behind. It doesn’t bother me too much as I put my faith in the universe to reimburse me as and when it sees fit. Some people think this makes me a womble*, but picking up free stuff does not a womble make. It’s just a universe-bartering system that I have been inducted into. I often leave various items of clothing, jewelry, accessories in different places (normally the sorts of places where alcohol is served) maybe not intentionally, but I rarely get upset at this. I just always hope they find their way to a good home (I find if you're going to adopt this philosophy it helps to be slightly forgetful and not to swing too much or too often into the realms of sentimentality). Having said that, I have been really missing my leopard-print shoes that I’ve lost at some point between going to Spain in the summer and, well, some point within the last week or so when I suddenly though about wearing them again. I just have to remember when the tears start prickling at my eyes that possessions do not maketh the man (but they can maketh the man’s feet look really good and feel very comfortable. Oh shoes, where fore art thou?). [Oh, by the by, I’ve worked out a strategy to help with my inability to gauge timescales – I simply think back to what outfit I was wearing at the time (yes, for some reason, I have catalogued every outfit I’ve worn in the last two years in my mind and this - what can only be described as - superpower has only just been brought to my attention. I AM MOTHERFUCKING CLARK KENT! Sort of.) This obviously only works in the sense of ‘remember when we went to… and did…’. It will not work if you say ‘what were you wearing on Tuesday 12th May?’. For the record, one more time, I HAVE NO CONCEPT OF DATES. But if you try the first approach then I will immediately know what outfit I was sporting. If it was summery then it must be around summer time, same for wintry looks. Sazz friends are encouraged to put this to the test. I need to make sure it actually works and I haven’t just been tricking myself into thinking I have this superpower].

However, that wasn’t how I locked myself out of the house. I just thought I’d mention it.

No, what happened was that there were keys in the inside lock and the door was ‘on the snip’ as we say (I think everyone else in the world says ‘latch’ or ‘catch’). This means that you can only open the door by putting your keys in and turning. However, as I mentioned there were keys in the inside lock meaning that I couldn’t put the keys on the outside all the way in the lock to turn them.

Thus I was locked out without being able to properly lock the door in the first place. Welcome to my world.

This happened as I was leaving for work. I decided there and then to just go to work and worry about it later. I figured if I couldn’t get in then burglars couldn’t get in and also thought that if I had some more mulling over time then I could figure out a way of somehow solving this minor conundrum.

I got in my car, and, as I do every morning, prayed to all the appropriate Gods, said all the correct incantations, and it eventually grumbled into life so off I drove. Seven minutes into my ride to work I had a flash of inspiration. Lightbulbs flickered into view all around my head. If I can just fit my hand through the letterbox then I can take the keys on the inside lock out and then open the door easy as pie. A smug smile played at the corners of my mouth. God I'm good. I thought. Smugly.

Then I went to work, did work things, and finally got home ready to put my plan into action. I was, and I hope this goes without saying, kind of excited to see if this would actually work.

Question: Have you ever tried putting your hands through a letterbox?

Yes, I thought you would have done. As such, you will know that if you have arms that are wider in circumference than a strawberry bootlace (i.e. everyone but Amy Winehouse) then you'll know that the furthest a normal sized person can get their arm in is generally half way between your wrist and your elbow.

This does not leave a lot of 'bendability' to twist one's arm back and fiddle with keys in a lock. The most you can do is move it from one side and then back to the other side. And then back to the other side again. You can wave basically. That's it.

My cunning plan looked a little like it might have failed at the first hurdle.

What I need is something like an arm, but smaller than an arm and with some kind of hooking device,I mused. Looking around for inspiration my eyes fell upon such a thing. Hello Kitty umbrella. The only umbrella I've never successfully lost. Old faithful friend. I'm trusting you Hello Kitty umbrella. Work your Japanese cartoony magic.

Did she?

Did she fuck.

She was even more useless than my arm. Not helped by the fact that I was doing this blind. However, the feeling that this was quite similar to some kind of trial from the Crystal Maze did make me feel a little better. If I can somehow relate one of my predicaments to a tv show then it kind of makes everything ok.

I stood back and really took a look at what was going on. I was trying to break into my own house by using a Hello Kitty umbrella.

Something in my life had gone very wrong at some point.

A new plan of attack was needed. Maybe I forgot to lock one of the back doors! All that was standing between me and checking this out was the 6 foot fence that surrounds my parents property. How do you get over a 6 foot fence when you're a 5 foot 6 inch girl who is possibly the most unfit human being in England?

You climb your dustbin and scale down the other side. Thus fulfilling your Peter Parker quotient for the day. So that's what I did. In my mind I assumed It would be a hop and a jump. Easy peesy.

In reality? Not so much.

First I had trouble clambering on top of the bin. It had been raining and these new fangled modern bins are all smooth and slidey. Anyone watching me would, I imagine, be unable to shake the image of seals flailing wildly over rocks on the oceanside. But slightly less gracefully.

After eventually trying the running jump technique (failing), the hands behind ass, shimmy up with a jump at the end technique (success). I was now atop a bin. It pains me slightly to say this probably ranks top 5 proudest moments of my life ever. However, the journey was only half completed. A quick peek over the back gate established that I was not going to be able to jump. Not unless I wanted a broken ankle. I weighed up this idea but decided that explaining to the paramedics how I'd found myself in such a predicament would really be the uncomfortable conversation to end all uncomfortable conversations.

I will do anything to avoid middle-class embarrassment.

So, instead, I bent double over the gate and reached to open the bolt. Again, I was doing this blind, stretched out to full capacity and leaning heavily on a plastic bin and not-exactly-stable piece of wood. I pretty much figured that this was how I was going to die. Falling from a bin and smashing my head open, all in an effort to open a gate. Just as I was about to convert to religion and ask God for help/just kill myself there and then the gate swung open. I hopped off the bin and looked round the back of the house for any likely entry points. I started wishing I'd watched that program with Dom of Kristian-and-Dominic fame where people get burgled to see how easy it is for them to get burgled (I mean really. I hate people that say shit like 'and this is what I pay my tv license for?' but if they're saying it in relation to this show then more power to them). However, the house , as far as I could see had indeed 'Beat the Burglar'. It was tucked up safe. No living out of Julie Newmar fantasies for me. I was starting to contemplate whether or not to sleep in my car (honest to God, the reason I discounted it was because I didn't want to go to work in the same outfit two days in a row. Fashion dictates everything dahlink) when I remembered I had a corkscrew in my bag (don't ask) (well, you can... I like wine ok?). The back door keys have a lock that is slightly wider than the front door one so, on a whim, I tried jimmying the keys out of there with the corkscrew so I could use the keys I had on me to open the back door (again, if there are keys in the inside lock then you can't get the keys on the outside to go in fully enough to turn them. If I could push the keys out then it would be a bingo bongo bish bash bosh job done situation).

And that's exactly what I did. Saved by a corkscrew.

Who said being an alcoholic was a bad thing? (I know everyone does. Shut up).

* Which reminds me of the time Chloe saw my Moomin snowglobe for the first time and reacted as thus; ‘What?! You like Moomins?? Then why did you get all offended when I said you reminded me of a Moomin??’ I’ll leave you all to ponder that question for yourselves.