Friday night.
Drunk.
Silly.
Walking home, I decide it would be terribly amusing to throw
things at Simon. I throw my keys at him.
“Hahahaha! Mind
out!! Hahahaha!” I cry.
I don’t see exactly where they land. I see them fall, but I can’t see them on the
ground. Where can they be?
Saturday morning.
Sober.
Hurting.
I am outside the police station, on my knees, scrabbling around
in the gutter over a drain. In my hand I have a wire coat-hanger, unwound and
transformed into a makeshift hook/robotic arm.
I spend a long time poking it between the bars, waggling it
around and scraping at the tantalising twist of steel which I can see but not
reach. Some of the things I draw up from this hellish abyss are unpleasant.
Inexplicably, long, rotting tangles of what appears to be human hair are freely
available from these recesses in abundance. Also damp, rotting leaves and
elderly tissues can be unearthed by the wiliest explorers.
The most rewarding part is how, when frequent passers-by
amble along outside the police station, I feel the need to stop what I’m doing
and explain my situation through a series of loud and unnatural proclamations:
“HARK- I HAVE ALMOST MANAGED TO REACH MY KEYS! OH MY KEYS! MY KEYS! IF ONLY I’D NOT ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED THEM!”
in case people thought I was doing something weird or
planting a bomb or something.
Oddly, no police challenged me throughout the endeavour,
which lasted about 25 minutes but felt like hours.
Eventually, I retrieved my keys and sat them in a bowl of
bleach for the afternoon.
What did I learn?
Never throw precious items.
Or always keep spare coat-hangers.
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