The door is locked. It’s a new lock. You asked Sam to fit it. Right, where did he say the key would be? On the ledge. There are seven keys. Think. It’s the big one.
Put the key in the new lock and turn it firmly. A satisfying clunk indicates the tumbler has turned. Excitedly, I turn the handle and push. Nothing. It’s locked. I have, in fact, just locked it myself because Sam told me he would leave it unlocked and I have omitted to recall that part of the conversation. I’m an idiot.
Suitcase manhandled through into the back yard. Lock the new door behind me so that no person or persons may breach my quarantine bubble. Now where is the backdoor key?
I’ll spare you the equally ridiculous rigmarole that finding it entailed, save to say it involved a blue plastic tray, various paint pots and some swearing.
I’m in. Oh my God I have never been so happy to be somewhere. It’s such a relief after the weirdness of travelling, masked, via motorway, two aircraft, Border Police, and the terror of potentially virus riddled public toilets. Not to mention the stress of trying to work out which direction the air conditioning was circulating in.
Friends have delivered my shopping, so kind. I wander from room to room just to see if the rooms are still there. Obviously they are. They even look the same as last time I was here. Very reassuring.
Back in the kitchen I deduce that wine has been chilled by other wonderful friends. I open it, rustle up some dinner, eat that, drink the wine, go to bed thanking my good fortune that I have arrived safe and well. Naturally I wiped all the sides with hot, soapy water and an e-cloth and put the dishwasher on beforehand. I am not a slattern.