The other day I couldn’t open my door. Armed with a blue Ikea bag looped through the silly handle, no matter how hard I pulled my front door would not budge. I was marooned in my own passageway. Not exactly 127 Hours but I did contemplate scaling the wall and leaping to freedom. I got a wobbly chair from the garden and climbed aloft like those women in cartoons who are scared of mice, but still couldn’t see over the wall, let alone jump it. So I resorted to what we used to do in the Olden Days. Listen up kids I’m about to impart a history lesson about the world before that thing called ‘connectivity’…
I gathered small stones from the garden and threw them at my neighbour’s window. While shouting my neighbour’s name very loudly. I sounded a little crazy but it worked and a young thirtysomething shouted back. I was relieved but not amused as the thirtysomething was probably thinking the old woman next door (me) had broken her hip and really needed to go in a home before too much longer. Anyway, a bit of pushing and pulling and I was rescued.
I thanked the thirtysomething but not really enough because I felt embarrassed and humiliated and had a glimpse of what life is like when you have to depend on others for something as mundane as opening a door.
I also had a flashback to watching the series ‘Thirtysomething’ on the tele, thinking how great it was that someone had written about my generation. These days the role models are Jenny Eclair (no thanks) or Jo Brand (I’d rather not). I’m an Inbetweener too you know, I’ve just slipped a couple of generations.
And the moral is? You never know what goes on behind closed doors.