Chubba Chubbs.


My plans for today were hijacked when, like the tool that I am (as my dad would probably put it), I got the wrong key stuck in my front door this morning.

It could have been worse; I could have been trapped outside all day in a torrential downpour with no phone to contact anyone and no money with which to barter for goods, services or good services. Thankfully the key got lodged in the lock on my way back in, but the bizarre thing was I somehow managed to open the door with the wrong key before the key got stuck in it.

What makes it all the more frustrating was I’d only locked the door seconds before I used the wrong key. I was popping out to see if our recycling bins had been emptied (my life’s a constant onslaught of adrenalin-fuelled excitement) when I saw it was raining and turned back to get my umbrella; if I hadn’t been so loath to get my hair wet, I could have avoided the whole situation.

The first thing I did was to try to gently dislodge the key myself with the aid of some WD40 (who are my favourite UB40 tribute act) but this didn’t do the trick. I decided it would be better to phone a locksmith than risk breaking the key and forcing the whole lock to be replaced, so  - like all unhandy handy-people - I turned to the internet for someone who could fix it.

An hour or so later, the locksmith arrived and took a look at it. He initially thought he’d have to replace the lock (which would have cost the best / worst part of £250) when, by a stroke of luck, he managed to release it; I’m now indebted to him for all eternity. That’s the last time I attempt to extend the world’s lifespan by recycling anything.

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