The ghost in the shell

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I had to write a post about this, to deal with it and to also demonstrate what a delightful comedy of errors my gigantic mess of an existence is.

So, I return home from work, put my bag down and go to the loo. I stop. In front of my toilet door is a copy of my roster, which was sitting in a tray on my desk, laying underneath a shell from my bathroom windowsill. I stop and do the obligatory freak out for 12.7 seconds. Then, I pull out my phone, snap a picture, and promptly post it to Facebook.

Absolutely true. Dear God, CC. You ridiculous, Generation Y, social media whore.

I reasoned at the time that I was beyond reasoning. It was actively, very odd. I supposed that the wind could have blown the roster off the tray from my desk, then blown a heavy shell from the windowsill. Perhaps the shell skipped over the toilet with the lid up, turned a corner, sailed through the door, and landed neatly on the corner of the roster.

Could totally happen.

I figured that if this was not a freak occurrence of Mother Nature, it could be a ghost with an odd sense of humour. My parents had smuggled that shell from Fiji on their honeymoon, maybe it was a South Pacific Ocean Demon, wreaking revenge three decades later.

I decide to check my spare key, which I had cunningly hidden downstairs after I locked myself out of the flat shortly after moving in.

The key is gone.

The freak out intensifies.

I sit, chew my nails, swear under my breath, and eventually lock the bottom lock on my door, which I never use.

After a beat, I decide that they key must be downstairs, I’m overreacting. I’m being melodramatic. Things like this don’t actually happen in real life. The world is not a scary place. Perhaps I just didn’t look hard enough. I grab my phone to use as a torch, and head back downstairs.

After ferreting around like a bag lady, I find the key. Yay. I head back upstairs to discover that I am locked out of the flat.

I locked the bottom lock on the door, see.

The one I never use.

Shit.

I am wearing only pyjama bottoms and a flimsy singlet. “Only” actually means, only. Only, as in no bra.

Fuck.

After trying to pick the lock with bobby pins, I decide that I am not Catwoman. I give up and call a locksmith.

The locksmith will be fifteen minutes. I wait outside. I am freezing and it’s painfully obvious. A cab pulls up, I look hopefully…like a meerkat with its arms over its chest…Not the locksmith.

On the plus side, there’s a cute guy who lives in my building. However, his first impression of me is dishevelled, mildly hysterical and pacing up and down the street clutching my phone.

The locksmith arrives. Another cute guy- where are these men hiding when I’m not a delicate mess? I try to conduct a reasonable conversation as he digs in my lock- not a euphemism- with my arms folded across my chest. My singlet is white. And threadbare. And he needed the hall light to conduct his work.

I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t get a discount.

I am obviously at home now, $220 poorer. The damage to my pride and dignity is yet to be valued.

I still have no idea what the fuck happened with the shell.

And, for the record, I totally would have given me a discount.

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