It's a lockout!

Got home from the pub quiz at the Antiquary last night at 11-ish. 10th out of 16 - a pretty poor performance. A & I suspect we may not be asked back!

So, 11pm, A takes out his keys, and discovers one has developed an unusual curve while in his pocket. Tries to straighten it and *snap*. Broken clean in half. Crap.

We borrow some pliers from a neighbour who's still up, but the haf-key is too short to open the lock. Nobody seems to have the key for the long ladder upstairs. Time to call the locksmith.

Enticed by big ads in the yellow pages promising no call out fees* (beware of the asterisk) we called a few. And discovered that £100 is the going rate for such a service. Per hour. Minimum. Plus of course VAT and materials. Not a buyers market, then.

We waited in our neighbour's flat and watched a rerun of Footballers Wives. There's something comforting about trash TV in moments of crisis. Eventually, anonymous locksmith arrived (later, when things weren't going so well and I asked his name, he refused to tell me).

His initial proclamation that we were in real trouble because the lock on our door was more at home in a jewellers shop and was impossible to open didn't fill me with confidence. Since it was now well past midnight, the volume of his delivery and propensity for swearing wasn't great either. Still, he had a box of tools. There must be something in there that could sort it, right?

Wrong. Said box contained a motley assortment of re-purposed and homemade junk. Not a purpose-built gadget in sight. The torch ran out of batteries about 2 mins into the job (yes, you guessed it, "materials" and therefore chargeable). A noisy half hour later, after much cursing and pulling scarves through the letter box (but magician he wasn't), I remembered that our spare key might be within reach. Off he went to get the fishing rod. Really. A fishing rod. Probably still had bait remnants smeared on it. Didn't work.

Next he had a hissy fit and noisily packed up his "tools". Didn't really want to stand on a ladder in the dark and rain to get in the window. He was a master locksmith. We could call anyone we liked. They wouldn't be able to get in either. Our flat was impenetrable. The only way was to drill out the lock, but that couldn't be done at night in a common stair. Stomp shout.

Suddenly, I was reminded of a TV programme I'd seen called something like "all locksmiths are dodgy", which showed that in 95% of lockouts they drilled out the lock rather than using less invasive procedures, so they could charge you for more materials (at a premium). Suddenly, I was glad of the late hour, and understood his bad humour. No drilling allowed.

Somehow, he changed his mind and decided he would get his ladder out and try the window. Must have been that vision of big fat wads of cash. More noise and harumphing. But once he was up the ladder, he was in within 30 secs. So why didn't he try that first?

So feeling a bit tired this morning, and determined to make some kind of a spare key plan to avoid ever having to experience a master locksmith again.