No, I'm Actually the Child of Bridget Jones and Chandler Bing - Part 2
Everyone’s favourite knobhead is back with another I Got Locked Out story. Yeah. You read that right.
For someone who tries her absolute hardest to appear somewhat ‘together’ at the best of times, I’m a bit of a shambolic mess. Isn’t there a saying about ‘never making the same mistake twice’ or something? Lol, cute xo . That individual clearly never met the crossbreed of Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones aka Kerry (Anne?*) Maxwell.
*can my parents, if they see this @ any point, pls try to remember what my first name actually is?!
It’s hardly as entertaining a story as last time. There were no strange men in white, windowless vans, no three trios of hummus for one person, no pubs in pyjamas. There were, however, some very kind and patient neighbours at hand. I also got to celebrate my first Eid, which was sick.
The story begins exactly – and I mean, exactly – like last time. I’ll clearly never learn.
My flatmate was upstairs playing some sort of computer game and I got it into my head to do a massive Spring Clean downstairs on a Friday night – I’m just really fun like that xoxo. Clearly delighted with the fact that I have downstairs to myself, I decide to host one of my infamous Cleaning Parties (@Ben u know how it is). Spot cream applied, favourite pyjama shorts on and biodegradable Dettol wipes in hand, I’m hinching my way across the flat to Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits. I’m truly living my hashtag authentic life.
I’ve just done a massive mop of the kitchen and living room floors. The back door is open to help speed up the drying process.
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SIDENOTE: I just looked back at my old post and I’m cringing at the fact that the above sentence is accidentally a DIRECT QUOTE. Lol. wHy Am I lIk3 dIs?
You can read it here and laugh at me some more if you want.
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I go out to the front door to empty the bucket into the outside drain and, yep, you can predict what happened next. Gust of wind. Slam. Lol. Good’un.
I roll my eyes and tell myself I’m an effin idiot. I go to text my flatmate to let him know what’s going on, hoping I’m not interrupting a pivotal, make-or-break gaming moment because I’m angry enough at myself and don’t want anyone else to be angry too. I reach my hand…into an empty pocket.
Shit.
Last time I was locked out with company (Wes I miss u), with a phone and no flatmate. This time, I’m locked out with no company, no phone and a flatmate wearing state-of-the-art, noise-cancelling gaming headphones.
Again, I repeat, shit.
I sigh. Gonna be a long night.
I begin the slow, ominous game of hammering my fist against the front door. I do it for a long time. I shout through the letterbox several times. No luck. I repeat the process again and again and again. Nothing.
I’d have been happy to continue to do this for far longer until I hear a group of guys on bikes laugh from the road below and, all of a sudden, I’m very aware that I look like the crazy ex girlfriend who’s been kicked out. Shouting through letterboxes and trying to kick in doors? Not a great look. It’s all very Coronation Street.
Half-embarrassed, half-desperate for a wee, I do a dramatic slide-against-the wall-down-to-the-ground like I’m recreating some early 2000s music video and decide to ponder on what to do next. Clearly I’m not cut out for this Spring Cleaning bizz; my own home rejects me each time I try it.
So I sit and wait. I think to myself that he’ll come down for a drink or a cig at some point soon(ish and I’ll catch him then; he’ll open the door, we’ll laugh at my stupidity and we’ll both get back to our evening plans. I won’t have to wait long.
But I’m waiting and it feels long. And I need a wee really badly.
I’m grateful for the warmth of the evening as I sit on the floor outside my door; I tell myself it could be worse. I could be in soaking wet fluffy socks, size 12 work boots and in the company of a kind hearted builder who chokes on jalapenos (I love u Wes xo).
I’m watching the pink evening sky turn darker and darker. I become aware that there are more cars about than usual. It takes me a few moments to remember that it’s Eid.
I was speaking to the family down the end of the block earlier that day when taking some boxes down to be recycled. The eldest sibling – a daughter who’s around my age – was outside on the balcony with the youngest of the siblings. When I said hello, we got talking for a brief moment and the youngest daughter, bubbling with excitement, started telling me all about her outfit for later that afternoon.
I’ve never been one to be matey with neighbours simply because it freaks me out to have ‘friends’ too close to home. I’ve always been nice enough for them to take my Amazon parcels in when I’m not home, but I’m not about to babysit anyone’s kids for them. But this family at the end of the block have always been proper nice; I genuinely like them, and, no, not in the fake-tight-smile-neighbour-y kind of way. They’ve got four or five kids. Like I said, the eldest is around my age. The youngest daughter makes me laugh so much, though. I was walking up the block one day a few months ago and caught her belting out an Ed Sheeran song at the top of the stairs, living her best life, the echoes ringing out against the walls. She thought she was the shit. I stifled my giggles and told her she was “so good!” She can’t be more than six or seven years old.
I recall the earlier conversation I shared with the sisters down the end that morning and wonder how cheeky it would be to knock on and ask for some help. Surely the eldest will get it. I wonder if she’ll lend me her phone so I can ring my flatmate and get myself back into my flat for a much-needed wee.
I practice my ask in my head several times before I begin walking down the block, trying different ways so I don’t sound like such a knobhead. Well, I mean, I’ve locked myself out of the house (again) and I’m also now rehearsing conversations in my head. I think I’ll snatch up the Knobhead 2020 award.
Feeling remarkably shy and so, so, so stupid, I make my way to their front door and give a little knock. I can’t believe I’m about to disturb a family’s religious celebrations with a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, and the strong potency of my spot cream lingering in the air. I could piss myself – partly because my bladder is so full, I feel like it could explode and partly because I look like a colossal idiot. I feel like even more of one.
Amazingly, the eldest daughter opens the door, closely followed by her mother. Both look concerned.
“Erm, hey! Are you having a nice evening?” Seriously, Kerry? Really?
My question is welcomed with a smile and returned back at me.
“Erm. Sure. I’m ok.” Lol, lies.
“Actually, well, I’m a total idiot and…”
“You’ve locked yourself out?” The eldest daughter finishes off my sentence for me.
Wow. A couple of years round here and this is what I’m known for. Sick.
“Erm, yeah. Sort of. Well not sort of. I am.” Smooth, Kerry.
It all happens very quickly but I’m pulled into a loud and warm house and happily welcomed into the hallway, bustling with hot swarms of people. The mop and bucket are disposed of and replaced with a plate of food and the littlest daughter twirls around, showing off the outfit she had been so excited to wear.
I’m stood in the hallway, laughing with the eldest daughter at the entire situation. It’s only after a few minutes of food, laughter and good conversation that I remember I actually knocked on their door to ask if I could borrow a phone. She happily hands it over to me; my flatmate answers straight away and says he’ll get the door right now.
And before I can outstay my welcome I’m waving my goodbyes, thanking people for the food and for the phone, and skipping down the block. My flatmate greets me at the door with a classic “you’re a twat.” I nod. I can’t even deny it. I trip inside (classic) and sprint upstairs for the best wee of life. I head back downstairs to finish cleaning and then I hop off to bed because that’s how we move on wild Friday nights in lockdown-limbo (to the soothing sounds of gamer flatmates screaming about shooting through walls!)
The next day, I wake up and write a quick ‘thank you’ card and pop it through the door on my way out for the day. I’d digested some thoughts (as well as the delicious food) overnight and had come to the conclusion that I couldn’t be more grateful for the welcoming and friendliness shown to me on what was probably one of my Weirdest And Embarrassing Moments to date. Kind of happy I haven't bumped into them since. 30 mins of pure idiocy and I was shown nothing but kindness (albeit initial concern!)
My first Eid? Yeah, I crashed someone else’s in my pyjamas
with a mop bucket. Nice.
So yeah. If you needed any more confirmation that I am indeed the lovechild of Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones, then this is it. For someone who pretends she is somewhat ‘functioning’ and ‘capable’ I’m clearly just a Big Idiot. Safe to say I will never be hosting another one of my Cleaning Parties because I simply can’t be trusted to do anything.
Sorry flatmates. Alderney will just have to remain a
permanent mess. xoxo
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