Let me tell you about the time I….had to be broken out of a bedroom by six firemenPosted: March 15, 2010
It was the Halloween Bank Holiday weekend.
Myself and The Boy had been living in our lovely new apartment for three weeks by that stage.
And in that short time, the handle had fallen off our front door.
Top quality, this place….
Our building’s caretaker managed to fix it for it, so the worst that happened there was that The Boy couldn’t leave the apartment for about four hours that day, while he stood guard at the door, wielding a baseball bat and waiting for the caretaker to find the right screwdriver/wrench/manly-item.
But it didn’t.
So that fateful Monday night, I washed my hair and went into the spare bedroom to blowdry every last curl out of my mane.
Now since the year I spent living in my college apartment, I have developed a habit of locking the door whenever I’m in my bedroom. It’s not that I’m up to anything dodgy, but there always seemed to be people roaming in and out of every college apartment, so locking the door just avoided random friends bursting into your room and finding you in the nudey-pants!
So when I went into the spare bedroom, *click* I locked the door, and began drying my hair.
But after a few minutes of this, I remembered something I had to do and so I switched off the dryer, hopped up and went to unlock the door.
And found the knob had disconnected itself from the lock.
So it was just twisting back and forth and having NO effect on the bar that was locking the door into place.
“The Boy!!!” I shouted
(Yes, that is TOTALLY what I call him on a daily basis)
I explained what had happened, and after asking me if I was SURE it wouldn’t open (because of COURSE I’m a panicking girl who can’t manage a DOOR LOCK), he agreed to fetch the door’s key from our room and try to unlock the door from the outside.
But that didn’t work either.
Are you SURE you’re turning it right? I asked, getting my revenge.
So what to do?
….and I needed to pee really badly.
So The Boy was forced to call the Fire Brigade.
Well I definitely didn’t think so at the time.
So after my making The Boy tell them that it wasn’t a REAL emergency so if there was a fire to tackle, that could go first…and after them asking how old I was…
…the firemen agreed to come out.
The Boy got a call about 20mins later from the fire-dudes asking where the HELL our apartment block was, so while I was hopping around trying not pee myself, he got to jog down the road and RIDE IN THE FIRE TRUCK while he showed them where we lived.
So they arrived and after asking me if I was sure the lock wouldn’t turn and asking him if he was sure he turned the key right….and after them trying the key themselves, they eventually agreed to break me out of the room.
At which point I realised just how mortifying the whole situation was.
And at which point I also caught sight of myself in the mirror and realised that in the panic, I had neglected to properly dry my hair, so I was now the proud owner of a frizzy white-girl afro.
And it was also at this point, I realised that I was SO embarrassed by now that my face and ears had turned the colour of cherry tomatoes.
So when the door broke open and I saw not one or two, but SIX firemen standing there, I squeaked (literally) and ran past them, into the sitting room, where I shouted my thanks and embarrassment at them from behind the safety of a wall.
And the landlord STILL hasn’t fixed that door for us….