For Raeven: How I broke my house.
December 24, 2013 at 8:38 pm
(This post was last modified: December 24, 2013 at 8:56 pm by Autumnlicious.)
[note: I made a passing mention of this incident in shoutbox. Rae wanted the details, which were too involved for that, so I'm putting them here]
In 2003, I was working as a pub musician in and around Belfast, Northern Ireland. I'd had a late gig at the Crown and a mate dropped me at home, about two miles away. Trouble was, my Land Rover and all my gear was still at the bar, and I had another gig that afternoon. It was a lovely day, and two miles wasn't much, so I figured I'd walk to the bar, get the car, and drive to the next gig in time to set up.
You know how the instant your door clicks shut behind you, you realize you haven't got your keys? Yup. And EVERY door and window was locked/latched (I keep house and car keys on the same ring).
After walking round the place twice, I decided the best course of action would be to break the cellar door, go down and then go UP into the kitchen. Got a pickaxe out of the shed and bashed the lock off, but not until I'd busted a hole in the door you could drop a good-sized dog through.
So, I go down the cellar stairs in the dark (natch) and up the kitchen stairs. This door is NEVER locked. It was today. Back to the cellar door, get the pickaxe and more or less destroy the kitchen door to get in. When I get the door open, the inside knob had fallen on the floor. Of course, I stepped on it, lost my footing, and the pickaxe - which I still had in my hand - went through a breakfront that belonged to my wife's dead grandmother, shattering the glass front and assorted curios on the inside. If you're keeping track, I've already destroyed two doors, a piece of antique furniture, and a not-inconsiderable number of crystal doodads.
I finally dropped the pickaxe (cracking two tiles on the kitchen floor) and went to the front-hall table for my keys. By now I was frustrated and in a rush, so I managed to knock over the table on my way out, which - of course - caused the earthenware key-bowl to shatter into nanoparticle-sized bits, and did the table no great favours, either.
I get out the front door, keys firmly in hand, and lock the door behind me. I'm just about to walk-trot to the Crown when I realize that both the cellar door and kitchen door are wide open. I go round back (again) see that there's no way I can possibly secure the place, when my wife comes up the cellar steps - she's just gotten home - and was making 'Wha-wha-wha' noises.
I explained what happened, that it was all me, we weren't robbed, etc. She looked at me long and hard, takes a deep breath and says, 'I love you, Pat, but sometimes you make my life feel like a Marx Brothers film.'
And that's the story of how I did £1500 worth of damage to my house while trying to get my keys.
Boru
In 2003, I was working as a pub musician in and around Belfast, Northern Ireland. I'd had a late gig at the Crown and a mate dropped me at home, about two miles away. Trouble was, my Land Rover and all my gear was still at the bar, and I had another gig that afternoon. It was a lovely day, and two miles wasn't much, so I figured I'd walk to the bar, get the car, and drive to the next gig in time to set up.
You know how the instant your door clicks shut behind you, you realize you haven't got your keys? Yup. And EVERY door and window was locked/latched (I keep house and car keys on the same ring).
After walking round the place twice, I decided the best course of action would be to break the cellar door, go down and then go UP into the kitchen. Got a pickaxe out of the shed and bashed the lock off, but not until I'd busted a hole in the door you could drop a good-sized dog through.
So, I go down the cellar stairs in the dark (natch) and up the kitchen stairs. This door is NEVER locked. It was today. Back to the cellar door, get the pickaxe and more or less destroy the kitchen door to get in. When I get the door open, the inside knob had fallen on the floor. Of course, I stepped on it, lost my footing, and the pickaxe - which I still had in my hand - went through a breakfront that belonged to my wife's dead grandmother, shattering the glass front and assorted curios on the inside. If you're keeping track, I've already destroyed two doors, a piece of antique furniture, and a not-inconsiderable number of crystal doodads.
I finally dropped the pickaxe (cracking two tiles on the kitchen floor) and went to the front-hall table for my keys. By now I was frustrated and in a rush, so I managed to knock over the table on my way out, which - of course - caused the earthenware key-bowl to shatter into nanoparticle-sized bits, and did the table no great favours, either.
I get out the front door, keys firmly in hand, and lock the door behind me. I'm just about to walk-trot to the Crown when I realize that both the cellar door and kitchen door are wide open. I go round back (again) see that there's no way I can possibly secure the place, when my wife comes up the cellar steps - she's just gotten home - and was making 'Wha-wha-wha' noises.
I explained what happened, that it was all me, we weren't robbed, etc. She looked at me long and hard, takes a deep breath and says, 'I love you, Pat, but sometimes you make my life feel like a Marx Brothers film.'
And that's the story of how I did £1500 worth of damage to my house while trying to get my keys.
Boru
‘I can’t be having with this.’ - Esmeralda Weatherwax
