I’ve been locked out, I’ve been locked in,
But I always seem to come back again”
- Neil Finn
"Keys? Tools? Locksmiths - not on Oxford Street Darling!"
My lifelong friend Ailsa had just moved to Sydney.
I hadn’t caught up with my old mate from the OHT for eons.
I could hardly contain the excitement that she was heading over to my Darlinghurst apartment for a catch-up!
It started off with us getting a massage at the Chinese Masseuse joint across the road (one of the MAJOR things I miss about Sydney life) and then we decided we would get a DVD and some dinner.
Feeling a little out of it after the massage we headed back to my pad with DVD and Thai food in hand.
I rustled through my bag for what seemed like an eternity.
A familiar lump began to form in my throat.
I could not find the keys.
The contents of my handbag would make stock-take at Crazy Clint’s look like child’s play so I didn’t want to panic too soon.
I could tell Ailsa was intrigued by what the hell must be in my handbag as I kept talking away nervously, every moment gaining more awareness of the fact I had locked us out.
My phone was inside and I had no money for a locksmith, no spare key no chance of climbing through a window as I lived on the third floor.
“Ummmmm… Ailsa….”
“Yeah?” she asked in her usual upbeat manner
“I haven’t got my keys”
“You sure?” she asked politely while I am convinced was thinking “Bloody hell you never change Montgomery”
I sat down on the pavement and preceded to empty out the contents of my bag.
This was an embarrassing moment, like I was emptying the contents of my soul.
Except my soul doesn’t contain excessive amounts of hairbands nor a glass I had inadvertently bagged from a nearby pub.
I felt terrible, there wasn’t a solution in sight...
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