Dealing with locks is never an open and shut matter, says David Hill.
The Cuzco bag-snatcher started it. He was slouching on a corner in the Peruvian town as we wandered past.
As we came abreast, he launched himself from the wall, tore Beth's handbag off her arm, and was away down the alley opposite.
Inside her bag were some US dollars, some Peruvian intis (it's moments like this you need intis), and the key to our hotel safety deposit box.
We had to pay $80 for the box's lock to be drilled out, and ever since then, locks have been a . . . a key problem in my life. There was the time I laid the final garment in my flawlessly-packed suitcase, then slipped padlock key into envelope and envelope into jacket pocket.
I paused to ring mail-collecting neighbour, found room in case for still one more garment, zipped up case and clicked padlock shut.
Twenty hours and two continents later, a man with a hacksaw came into my hotel room, and sawed off my small padlock for a large fee.
I unzipped the case and took out my jacket containing key-in-envelope.
There was the other time when our back door slammed so hard in a southerly that the snib stuck. We couldn't open it with the key. Or with the screwdriver, the wire coathanger, the tomahawk blade.
For the next three weeks, I rather enjoyed the stroll with rubbish bag or washing basket out the front door, round the house, and across the back lawn.
I particularly enjoyed meeting two Jehovah's Witnesses on the front step with a container of decomposing veges.
And there was the third time, after a spate of bike thefts in our neighbourhood. (A chain gang was obviously involved.) At the local cycle shop, I bought myself a combination lock.
"The salesguy said to set it to your birthday or your pin number, something you can't forget," I told Beth, before breaking off to answer the phone.
That afternoon, I rode down to the library, padlocked my wheel to a lamp-post, paid my overdue fines, came out, and stood staring at my bike with hands on hips and brain on empty. The really distressing moment came when I rang home.
"A file?" went Beth.
"I don't think we have a file. Not unless there's one in that old shed drawer. The drawer" - and here she began giggling irresponsibly - "that we've never found the key to."
I've locked myself out of the house and had to get in via three louvres wrenched from the bathroom window.
Out of our local Astronomical Society Clubroom and had to get in via the telescope aperture. Out of our car and had to get in via the AA.
Out of our computer and had to get in via seven calls to our provider and a new password.
But a few months back, I started to feel that my lock problem had finally shot its bolt. We decided to celebrate with a weekend away.
In the hotel, I unpacked, and arranged my wardrobe in their wardrobe. On the shelf was a square metal shape which left minimal room for my things.
At my third irritated shove, the front of the square metal shape swung back, and the sound of tumblers clunking shut echoed through the room.
"Better put money and things away safely before we go for a walk," Beth was saying.
I didn't reply. I was busy studying the square metal sign on the square metal shape.
It read: "Warning: Do NOT close safe without removing key from interior."
David Hill is a Taranaki writer.
- By David Hill
