The sense of relief was building as I walked down the street, moving ever closer to my driveway. It had been a strenuous working day and I’d certainly used up my brain power allowance for a Tuesday. But luckily in just a few seconds I’d be slumped on the couch watching the glorious selection of mindless trash TV that awaited me on the Sky Planner. The lazy arse’s dream!
Despite having only moved into the terraced house in Tooting with my friends Ellie and Dan the week before, I already felt surprisingly settled into the area. The house was fairly run down, but no more than we were used to and I could certainly fill it with enough of my random shit to make the place feel like home. It didn’t matter it wasn’t the most luxurious abode because we were living the London dream – residing in below average accommodation and eating unsubstantial meals in order to fund weekends of boozing and hangovers.
Strolling up to the front door I grappled with the concoction of loose coppers, escaped Twiglets and used tissues in the bottom of my bag and eventually located my key. But to my surprise it wouldn’t fit in the lock, even after repeatedly attempting to jam it in with more force than any sensible person would. Taking a step back, I examined the outside of the house for other entry options. That’s odd, I thought, those flowers to the right of the doorway are new. I guess Ellie planted them to try to brighten up the place. Well how lovely.
I pounded the door and warbled at the top of my voice, in the hope someone was in. No answer. I skulked along the outside of the house to the window that looked into Dan’s room. With any luck he’d have returned early from work and could save me the trouble of running full speed at the front door like a crazed Viking with a battering ram.
Cupping my hands around my eyes, I pushed my face up to the glass and peered through. There he was! Yes, I could definitely make out a human shape in the corner of the room. Banging on the window ferociously and jumping up and down like an excitable baboon at a safari park, I screeched: “Dan, let me in! My key doesn’t work! Dan!”
Despite spotting slight movement in the room nobody came to the door to rescue me. What the hell was he playing at? Valuable lying-horizontal-and-almost-comatose-on-the-sofa time was being wasted!
“Dan! Are you in there?” I hollered, hammering on the door harder than before. “Helloooo, I can’t get in! Daaaaan!”
Finally I heard the sound of unlocking and the door very slowly creaked open to reveal an unfamiliar face. That doesn’t look like Dan. Who the hell’s this dude?
“Can I help you?” the nervous-looking stranger whimpered.
Confusion escalated to panic with the sudden realisation that not only was that man not Dan, I had also never seen the hallway he stood in and, most importantly, I did not live here. The flowers hadn’t miraculously appeared, this just wasn’t my house. A far more logical explanation than Ellie having planted some new pansies to make the place look more colourful.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. That’s my place over there,” I whispered, cowering away and glancing across the street to what was very obviously our house, number 15.
In times of severe stupidity such as this you must react quickly in an attempt to counteract the oddness that has just occurred. Do I pretend I’m drunk? At least then it would make something so weird slightly more logical. After speedy contemplation I decided against this option because it was only 6pm on a weekday and I didn’t want to look like a raging alcoholic and a bloody idiot.
Instead I continued to make other excuses and splutter out any amalgamation of words that popped into my head: “You see… err… I’ve only moved here recently. Um, well this is still very embarrassing because it’s still daylight and I’ve been back to my house a fair few times. Oh I am sorry, you must have thought I was crazy.”
Examining the incident in hindsight, I’m fairly certain that if I’d been on the receiving end of the bizarre encounter I would have found it amusing. The middle aged gentleman staring back at me was not overjoyed in any way though. In fact, he still looked shaken up from the barrage of window and door pounding and shouting the crazy lady had subjected him to as he relaxed in his bedroom. With fear in his eyes, he nodded awkwardly and, accepting this was my cue to leave the premises, I hung my head in shame, turned around and shuffled back down the path and across the road to my real house.
On occasions I would pass the poor man’s driveway as he was leaving or returning to the house. Our gaze would meet, we’d shared a knowing look and I would re-live the humiliation of trying to force my way into his property.
Embracing the idiotic 