Yesterday, I inadvertently locked myself out of the house. I didn't mean to, obviously, but what really concerned me was this is the second time I have done this in the last six months.
'So what?' I hear you say. 'Lots of people lock themselves out of their houses all the time.'
Ah, but you are missing the point, dear reader. I am NOT most people. I am a hyper-organised control freak who NEVER does things like lock herself out of her house. And what I am thinking is that this absent mindedness is the start of the Great Marble Loss.
What happened was that Andy had gone to the dentist and whilst he was gone I thought I would do the ironing, steam clean the kitchen and hall floors and vacuum the carpets. So I did. And when I had finished ironing Andy's consulting uniforms and surgical scrubs I thought I would pop them in his car ready to return to work with him the next day.
So I picked up his spare car key (which was NOT my car key which is attached to the house keys), went through the front door and because I was holding a key in my hand, I automatically closed the door behind me. I think it was a subliminal thing - keys in hand = ability to re-enter house.
Well, of course I couldn't, could I?
So I cursed my stupidity and then I pulled a few weeds from the flower borders to make it look to the rush hour traffic like I was intentionally in the garden doing a spot of weeding at 8.15 in the morning. Then I wandered up to the junction to see if Andy was returning but he wasn't because he was at the dentist and then I had a brief panic moment because I thought I may have left the iron on, but then I thought that I would never do something like that, and then I thought but you have locked yourself out of your house, you idiot and you have never done THAT before, except that time just before Christmas. Which is the festive season I shall come to in a moment, but back to my predicament.
I thought, I have two options - 1) I can sit on the doorstep until Andy returns, looking all forlorn (me, not him. Although he might look forlorn depending on how he fared at the dentist) or b) I could somehow break into the back garden over the fence.
Despite the fact the fence that separates the drive from the back garden is at least seven feet tall I am ever the optimist and thought that there was no way I was going to be all flimsy and sit on the door step looking like a muppet who had locked herself out. Oh no! I was going to scale that fence! Oh yes! Or at least, scale it as far as I could in order to reach over the gate to unlock it.
My plan to call on the friendly neighbours and borrow a ladder or some kind of stepping device was scuppered by the fact they were all out. I scouted the front garden which was looking surprisingly neat and tidy. Except...what was that? Six house bricks used to stand plant pots upon?
So I built myself a six brick high,one brick wide tower of...well, bricks. It looked sturdy enough. I thought, surely, with my exceptional and balletic balancing skills I will be able to stand tippy-toes on this brick tower and nothing disasterous could possibly happen like falling off and breaking both my ankles?
You will be pleased to know that I am NOT writing this with my lower legs encased in plaster! Unless you are a vengeful stalker, of course, and are waiting for something hideous to befall me so you can have a good goat...I mean, gloat...in which case I shall just say 'karma' and leave you to think on, you sad example of humanity.
So I wobbled atop my tower of bricks, standing on my toes and reaching as far over the fence as I could without dislocating my shoulders. And I just about managed to wriggle open the lock on the other side of the gate and get into the back garden where Primrose and Daisy had been watching my shenanigans with great interest.
The back door was unlocked because I had just put the washing out, and I went inside vowing to keep this embarrassing interlude to myself. Which clearly I have failed to do.
Anyway, the point in telling this tale is to highlight the fact I am becoming forgetful and should no longer be in charge of dangerous equipment like double ovens cooking Christmas dinners. So I am giving my family fair warning that I shall not be cooking Christmas dinner this year but will be more than willing to sit in the living room watching TV, possibly reading, and eating chocolate whilst someone else takes charge of the annual goose wrestling.
And don't forget I am a vegetarian and please don't cook my potatoes in goose fat. And I might be persuaded to assist with washing up but that will depend on what the Christmas film is.
You have six months to get yourselves organised. I shall probably lock myself out again in the meantime. And Lord knows what else.