So there I was, back in the comfort of my home, with my soup heating up on the cooker, and moments away from a nice, soothing lunch, and my bed. And then I was seized by an urge to add some fresh rosemary to the soup, so I opened the door, as you do, and stepped out and over to the rosemary bush, to pick a sprig or two.
And I heard the click. It didn’t even have the decency to be a slam. Just: click. Such a gentle, polite little sound, with such devastating connotations. My mind instantaneously tallied up all the facts – door shut / key on inside / all windows closed / gas fire on – and produced the following output:
FUCK FUCK FIRE FUCK BREAK DOWN DOOR SEVEN HUNDRED EURO FIRE FUCK
I performed some sort of comedy, headless chicken routine, whereby I did a few circuits of the yard, entirely without purpose or logic, and then ran up to the front door and threw myself against it, shoulder first, like I’ve seen in films. Once, twice, three times. The door rattled, but remained intact. I stared at it, dumbly, rubbed my shoulder, kicked my flip-flops off, and sprinted to Vangelia’s, the nearest house I knew to be occupied. I rushed into her kitchen, surprising the entire family as they were having their Sunday lunch, screaming incoherently about doors, fire and men.
‘What?’ Vangelia said, standing up.
‘I’m locked out!’ I managed. ‘The fire is on!’
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish