17 July – The Problem of the Door

I have been in London now for nearly six months.  I must say the transition has been so smooth, that it is easy to forget that I’m living in new city, a new country.  I found a flat with ease, was warned in advance to purchase a TV license so that I could legally watch Find Me the Face on BBC 3 and even have a passable “oi! Geeza!” and “that’s bang out of order”.  Thus, I’ve perhaps not been diligent in keeping an eye for those little looking glass moments that make living as an ex-pat so damn exhilarating.

This is how I found myself trapped in my flat last Saturday afternoon.

Yes – locked in my flat.

The week before my downstairs neighbour moving in, her landlord changed the lock on our front door as the prior tenants had apparently been an unsavoury lot*.  Whilst he did his thing, the locksmith told me a funny thing about our lock.  If you use the key on the outside lock, vs. just shutting the door behind you, you throw a bolt that cannot be opened from the inside. 

I can see the purpose of this sort of lock if it were a single-family home or if you were a kidnapper, but in a two-flat abode, not so much.  I can just imagine a US fire warden’s face at spying such a device.  And then I can imagine them immediately calling the landlord to change it to a less death-trap version.

Anyway – it shouldn’t be a big deal.  It’s easy to remember.  Don’t lock the door.  Just close it and let the lock work for you.  It’s actually simplifying your day.  This is why I was so surprised when I went to meet friends on Saturday and could not.  It did not take long to realize what happened – but longer to accept that it had.  I went back to my flat and waited for a few minutes.  Surely, she~ must have just popped to the store and will be back in a tick.  An hour later, I gathered metal sticks of varied shapes and sizes and fashioned some lock picks.  The Victorians who built the lock must have had a better selection of metal sticks lying about, so my breaking and exiting career was over before it began.

I waited a bit longer and sent increasingly frequent and fevered texts to my friend, whom I was now late to meet.  Still no neighbour, I had to leave, and I’m not a climber so I went the damsel in distress route.

I waited for a passerby.  The first I saw was a 50-ish earth mother type in a purple floral caftan.  Score.  I called to her from my first floor window, “Miss, miss.  Do you have a moment, please?  I seem to, ha ha, be locked in my flat.  If I toss my keys to you, would you please open the front door? Please – please”.

“Well,” she tutted and huffed, “I am very busy”.

“Oh.  Ok,” I said wondering what kind of person doesn’t have two minutes to help a sister out.  “I understand.  Have a good day”.

“Well,” huff and puff– maybe, I thought, she could just blow the damn door down – “I suppose I can’t leave you trapped in there”.

I am sure she thought I was an incompetent (and I don’t think my accent assuaged her fears).

“I understand.  I do not wish to detain you,” my voice a bit steely, “Have a good day”.

But in the gate she came, and I brightened.  She put up cupped hands and I tossed the keys down to her.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I would either catch the keys or let them drop to the ground.  She walked in to them and so, I clocked her on the head.  Oh la la – this was not going well***.

I apologized profusely, but she did not respond.  I went downstairs to offer moral support as the lock was not being cooperative.^

At this point, I did feel a bit guilty for keeping and clocking her, and told her that I appreciated her stopping, especially because she had places to be, and if she wanted to, she could just put the keys in the letter slot and be on her way, but she was determined.  Now she had a mission and would see it through.  Turn turn turn turn turn, grumble grumble, turn turn turn turn grumble grumb-

Click.

Ah – click.  An explosion of joy and relief filled my being and I exclaimed “you are my hero!  Thank you thank you, but by the time I looked up, she turned on her heal and without a word was gone.

Perhaps I met just the angriest little angel in heaven or someone who could just do with a good deed on her record, but it doesn’t matter because she set me free and I will forever be grateful.

It took about ten minutes to find the funny and the absurd in the situation, but still I left a note for my neighbour^^.  I assume that she had given the keys to someone, and either forgot to mention the little key rule or they forgot that it had been mentioned, but if not the lock is malfunctioning we need to get it replaced, so the note was just a heads up,  In the end I did make it to Walthamstow in time for the running of the dogs, (more on that another day) and got a fun story out of it, and that is really all one can ask for on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

*             *             *

*Let’s not point out that I had been living alone in the building with my glass inner door for three months before they changed the lock**.  Glad to know the unsavoury were also unmotivated and they did not return.  But – hee hee – their parole officer (or some sort of very sweet government fellow who seemed a wee bit unnerved to find out that he no longer knew their current place of residence) did.

~She is also aware of the lock – in case any of you, my kind friends, thought that she may have been in the dark.  Nope.  Not a bit.

**Then again, I’ve lived in some, um, up and coming neighbourhoods in New York and have no problem with the blind and stab method of home protection, though since I use green cleaning products, the blind portion of the attack might be more “why have you made me smell like Lemon Basil” than blind – but anything to get the advantage.

***I have a theory on this.  In the US, we play baseball and catch.  In the UK, they play football, and so perhaps butting something with her head was the ingrained response to something coming at you.

^Why is it that if you get going the wrong way on a lock it can take days to get it open?  Shouldn’t you just be able to easily turn it the other way, but no, round and round it goes until you start to question whether you are even using the right key (which of course you are or it wouldn’t have fit and turned at all), then you try again, but can’t remember where you left it and around and around you go again till the little imp of locks and latches decides you have earned his favour and entry is granted

^^She returned on Monday.  Good thing I’m a problem solver (well – ten minutes into an emergency – before that, you’re kinda on your own).