This week I'll be mostly locked in the lavatory

"Oh dear, what can the matter be"
- Trad.

(This isn't about leaving.  Who am I kidding, it totally is.)

I'm in the downstairs toilet, for what will be the last time.  Fortunately (for me), and unfortunately (for you), I have my phone on me.  It's a smart(ish) phone, so not only can I make a phone call, but I can also take a photo, and write some stuff...

Generally, when a disaster happens, the independent enquiry that is conducted after the event usually concludes that an unfortunate combination of conditions led up to some kind of catastrophic failure.  For example, a nuclear reactor doesn't just explode for no reason, but if the chief engineer is off sick, on the same day that the lifts are being serviced, and the temperature sensor that has been playing up for a while just happens to be the one now showing a problem, then by the time the new guy in the control room realises there's a problem and gets a message to the deputy engineer (who is not in his office because he's in a meeting about the faulty sensor), the deputy has to walk up 10 flights of stairs, before arriving at the control room just too late to start the emergency shutdown procedure.

And so, back to the lavatory…

The downstairs loo ('downstairs'?  We live in a bungalow!?) has got a dodgy lock.  This morning I explained this to the landlady, and demonstrated it, but it was perfectly fine and she didn't really see what the fuss was about.  Four hours later, the removals people have taken the last of our stuff.  The carpet cleaner guy has just finished.  The builders doing the roof are packing up for the day.  The window cleaner has just arrived.  We're packing the final few bits in the back of the car.  We've got about 1 hour before we need to be at the ferry terminal.  I need a wee...

I would use the main bathroom, except that the carpet is wet, and I've got my shoes on, and I don't have time to take them off, because we don't have long to finish packing the car and get off this rock.  The downstairs loo is a single hop from the front hallway, so I can get there without causing a problem with the clean and damp carpet.  I would leave the dodgy door unlocked, except that the window cleaner is round the front, and what if he also needs the loo and barges in unannounced, and besides, I showed the landlady this morning, and it was fine.  So I lock the door.  I immediately check, and unlock the door.  It's still fine.  I lock it again.  I do what I came here to do.  I wash my hands, although there's no soap or towel.  I unlock the door.  It doesn't unlock.  Poo.  I try again.  Nothing.  Again.  Still nothing.  I jiggle the key about in the lock.  Nothing.

So, I'm in the downstairs toilet, for what will be the last time.  Fortunately I have my phone.  I phone the missus, who is outside wondering how all this stuff is going to fit in the car.  Fortunately the builders are still here.  She goes and gets one of them to help.  Fortunately he has a hacksaw, and starts hacking away at the lock.  I have nothing better to do than sit and watch.  And take a photo.  And write a few sentences about how bizarre this all is.

Long story short, (ha ha, he says after 500 words), the builders resort to taking the door frame off.  I get out.  We finish packing the car, and we get to the ferry terminal with about 15 minutes to spare.

Another hour later, we're in the club class lounge on the slow boat to Portsmouth, just rounding the bend on the outside of Corbiere.  I'm insisting that one day we'll laugh about the story of me getting locked in the loo.  The missus and the nippers aren't convinced.