Ok, sorry about the extended break there, have been quite busy. Anyway, back to that damn ladder...

We have been swearing and giggling and banging the ladder against the building so much that we have caught the attention not only of those out on the street, but also our neightbours, who all lean out of their respective windows, and almost in a chorus pipe up with suggestions:

"have you tried calling the landlord?" "Is the chubb lock on?" "that ladder isn't tall enough" - they were of course being friendly and helpful, but it's all just compounding our hopeless situation. We are beginning to reconcile to the fact that we either have to break down the door, or sleep in the garden.

Thankfully one of the neighbours invites us in to defrost and regroup. Darren and his wife Jennifer are lovely and expecting their baby in 6 weeks. Unbeknownst to us, they have already been on the internet trying to find a number for our landlord. That doesn't work, so they ask one of their friends around (it's 10:30pm by this stage I should mention) who owns a contruction business and knows an amenable joiner who may come out at mates rates (we are still contemplating how we are going to pay the exorbitant fees of a 24hr locksmith), and Jennifer is even at the stage of lending us money. We of course decline this last suggestion, on the grounds that we don't actually have any money to pay her back! As it turns out, the joiner is out and has had a few, so won't be able to help out.

There is nothing to be done.

So Darren, who is a big, tall guy, (and who also, as per my facebook status update, has the desperately depressing job of collecting dead bodies for a living, usually from motorway accidents and is therefore burdened with an understandable amount of latent rage) suggests simply forcing the door open. Stu and I are unconvinced. The door is massive, and heavy, and twice locked with the kind of sturdy devices usually saved for prisons. Still, we can think of no other solution, or we are tired and want to go to bed. One of the two. We imagine Darren will simply tire himself out and maybe for once have pleasant dreams.

Instead, what happens is he issues one startlingly thunderous kick after another. The whole building shakes and trembles as he reins terror down upon our door. Slowly but surely the door begins to groan, there's movement, cracking and splintering of wood. His exersion is obvious as his smokers rasp intensifies. With one final swift kick, the door is open, the two locks in ruins. It really was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen, and Stu and I are finally in. The first thing I do is run to the cupboard for a jumper. The second thing we all do is take in the sight of splintered wood and cracked plaster all over the floor and the sad sight of the chubb lock bent at a 90 angle. Ahhhh, um. The initial euphoria dies away, and we realise that tomorrow we're off to Liverpool and we effecttively have no front door. The kicking has of course gained the attention of our top floor neighbours, who have an adorable 4 year old girl, who as it turns out is an astoundingly heavy sleeper. Alan is a contruction worker from Aberdeen. His wife Tamara is a legal secretary turned masseuse from Sydney (she went to Tara dad!). He takes one look at the Yale lock (apparently, I was downstairs collecting our now defunct ladder) and pieces it back together, attaching it to the door frame and making us, once again, in possession of a front door of sorts. Ok, so the situation isn't perfect. The door is still very much broken and any would-be thief ambling along would see the makeshift barrier for exactly that and take us for everything we're worth (about the price of one 3 year old laptop actually), but it's enough for now.

We are exceedingly grateful to everyone who has helped out, but we are dubious about the door and what can be done to fix it with our limited financial resources. Still, at this point, with the promise of a hot shower, some food, and then a glass (or 3 bottles) of red wine at Alan and Tamara's, we don't care.

We drink the wine, get quite boozed, and then finally pass out sometime around 2am in our own bed. In the mean time, Derek (the landlord) has received the message explaining what has happened in the morning and comes over to check out the damage. He's a nice guy, and so isn't too put out, but when he sees the state of the door he can only shake his head in bemusement. Apparently he had been on the High street getting a few beers before Coronation Street started (seriously) at around the time we were lugging the bloody great ladder home from work. How we missed eachother we'll never know. He actually had the spare keys on him at the time.

The long and short of it is that we need a new door, and new locks, and new keys. Hence we are down about $600 to Derek, who nicely enough has agreed that we can pay him back in installments. Ironically, joining a gym would have saved me money.