keys

On Monday I give Joyce a box of chocolates for looking after the cat while I’m in Adelaide. She returns my keys. On Tuesday my good woman returns my other set of keys. Yesterday I remember that I have no spare keys stashed outside for that rare occasion when I lock myself out. It happens.

This morning I make sure I have my keys in my briefcase, pick up the keys to the hire car, motor off to a meeting in Gippsland. On my way back I stop and have lunch with my mother. She is less shocked that I imagine at the news that my good woman and I have fallen apart.

I drop the hire car off, arrive home in a taxi at 3:15. I have 15 minutes for a cuppa before another meeting, this one in Lilydale. I can’t find my keys. I remember putting them in a small outside pocket of the briefcase, taking them out again; too lumpy.

Now I put the briefcase on a table next to the front door, empty all four external pockets, two internal pockets, four sleeved compartments. No keys. I go to the back shed, look everywhere for spares. No go.

The dog paces and cat howls at the back door, wait for me to let them in. I apologise, unpack the briefcase, again no keys. Twice I hurl myself at the door, hope the lock, the jamb, the hinges, the striker gives way before I do. The door bends but holds.

I hook out the laptop, set it up on the cat bench on the back porch. I enter emergency locksmiths eastern suburbs Melbourne in the search engine, ring the first. He asks what suburb. Nah, he says, too far away. I ring a second. Too busy, no chance. Sorry. I call a third. What suburb? Be there in an hour. He wants an assurance I won’t call anyone else. You’re the man, I tell him.

I find a gardening glove, weed the front garden, bin hundreds of soggy camellia heads. I find an old stool in the shed, wheel it to the carport, plonk my arse on the hard seat, lean back against the car, nod off, cold wind swirling round my ankles.

The mobile rings at twenty to six. The locksmith is in my street, can’t find my house. He asks for the nearest cross street, tells me his GPS doesn’t have it. He’s on the corner of Ranger Road. I twig. I tell him I’m in Melbourne. He tells me he’s in Sydney.

I’m over locksmiths, hurl myself at the door one last time. I fetch a hammer from the shed; two swift swipes just below the lock rip through the flimsy plywood. I stick a hand through, turn the handle. The dog and cat bolt through the splinters all over the floor.

I pull off the smashed ply, find a handy offcut from a shelf, drill a hole in each corner, screw it on over the ragged cavity, sweep up the debris.

I don’t get pissed off, just philosophical. It’s par for the course in a shit week.

Rock on.