We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming, ‘the Snowflake continues’, to bring you a ramble about what passes for my real life.
The front door key to my apartment started sticking in the last week of September. The first time it happened, I was standing out in the hallway for about fifteen minutes after getting home from work before getting inside. I managed to catch the landlord a few days later, when he was in the building for something-or-other, and remind him that he’d wanted to get the lock changed so that he’d have a master key in case he needed to get in, since he’d lost the master for the old lock. He said that he’d look into getting a new lock, and I reminded him again when I paid rent for October. Over this time, the lock really acted up badly a few times, and most of the time it took ten or fifteen seconds of fiddling. Some times it went with hardly any trouble at all.
Last night, the driving teacher called me a bit earlier than my scheduled time, told me he’d be in the parking lot in five minutes, and so I rushed around, remembered that the key had been acting up a bit more than usual on the way to and from work that day, and hurried out into the hallway. No go. Absolutely no go. As I heard the phone ringing inside, and knew that the teacher was calling me again to say ‘I’m here, where are you?’, I actually got worked up enough to bend the key halfway along, by around thirty degrees.
First reaction – “Well, that’s it, this thing is never gonna work again.”
So I rush downstairs, tell the guy that I can’t go for my lesson that night, call up the landlord. Everything got well sorted out in less than twenty-four hours – the landlord was here around 3 this afternoon with a shiny new lock and key, and I was able to work from home today while I waited for him.
It seems a bit odd to be mentally trapped inside my home, (or at least not willing to go further than around the building for a minute,) when the door can be opened, but on the other hand – this is a reasonably safe neighborhood, but I still just don’t feel comfortable leaving all my things when anybody could come up the stairs and open my front door. I’m not sure if that’s slightly neurotic or just sensibly cautious. After all, people’s doors have locks for a reason.
But it was with a sense of palpable relief that I headed off this afternoon to get groceries.