I confess the name of actor Ian McDiarmid rang no bells with me when he appeared in last weekend’s Observer colour supplement but I’ve started reading almost anything by old people and he is 77. He featured in the Q&A column. One of the questions he was asked was, what do you see as the most positive thing about getting older?
That’s my kind of question, I thought but the answer was a bit disappointing. He said, ‘in old age you know a bit, don’t you? Although sometimes you know less than you think you do.’ If I were asked what ‘knowing a bit’ meant for me, I’d struggle to answer.
If it meant knowing where I’d left my house keys or where the sheds (X3), car (X3), summerhouse keys (X2) are and what they look like, then I’d definitely struggle. And just when I thought I couldn’t get any dafter when it comes to keys I proved myself wrong.
Last week I picked up what I thought were our house keys from their usual place by the front door, as we left the house to take the dogs for their morning walk. It was only when I tried to lock the Chubb lock as opposed to the Yale lock that a sinking feeling came over me.
By this time the door was shut and locked with the Yale lock having its latch dropped. I blamed Mrs Summerhouse for not having left the house keys in their usual place (they were in her coat pocket but not the one she was wearing obviously) and leaving the barn keys there instead but, as she said, did you not realise they were a different set of keys and I had to confess I hadn’t – obviously.
We did the walk but by the time we’d finished we didn’t have much in the way of a plan to get back into the house. Make that no plan at all. In the past we would have leaned a ladder against the side of the house under number one’s son’s bedroom window but, after our last break-in, we thought we’d better close the window properly (it had been slightly ajar) not now and anyway Mrs SH said there was no way she was going up the ladder now she was ten years older.
We thought we had a plan when we remembered we had left a spare set with one of our neighbours, as any sensible person does. We had and they found them – a miracle. Well not actually because they were the keys that fitted the old set and not this one. Hopes buoyed then dashed.
We tried calling our daughter, who has a proper set of keys but she didn’t answer and neither did our son-in-law at least not until we had got in. So we’re down to plan F or something. Plan G was to go to another neighbour who had the builders in. These jolly good chaps drilled out the ‘barrel’ of the Yale lock, as I believe it’s called, with a metal drill bit and with a bit of huffing and puffing we achieved entry. He even said he thought he had a spare barrel in his garage and he would bring it tomorrow. Job’s a good un, you might think.
Tomorrow rolls around and all we had to do was lock the door using only the Chubb lock. Did we do this? Not quite. Mrs Summerhouse pulled the door shut with the latch still dropped. Now we were in a worse position than the previous day because we couldn’t drill anything out and had no way of tinkering with the Yale lock. Did you not think the bloody great big hole in the lock would suggest the lock was not working properly, if at all? I didn’t see it she said. Hard to miss I would have thought but no use crying over damaged locks. We did the walk and hoped that by the time we got back the builders would have arrived and although their new barrel was now useless they would have other builder-like ways of getting in.
No builders and no idea of when they might show up. The slightly less attractive side of builders. In the meantime we were well and truly stuck. When intellect fails brute force must suffice. I put my shoulder to the door and broke it open. It surprised me when it burst open and I passed through the door way with more speed than I had imagined possible and I landed on my head in the hall way but no matter we were in. True the door frame was somewhat damaged but look on the bright side, the door wasn’t and we were in.
The builders arrive with the new barrel for the lock. I tell them things have changed. He offers to go out buy a whole new lock and fit it for me. I haven’t had his bill yet but I’m being small-minded we’re in the house and we now have a brand new Yale lock, much better than the old one.
All we have to do now, I say we, I mean of course all Mrs SH has to do now, is go out and get a new set of keys cut to give to daughter and neighbours so that in the unlikely event of us doing the same stupid thing, we can get back in the house without me having to put my shoulder to the door and land on my head in the hall. What’s that? You think a bang on the head might help my brain to function a little better. You may have a point.