Spare Key

house-keys

I was late by ten minutes. I had my car keys – but not my house key. They’re all supposed to live together on the same split-ring, but that’s another story. I didn’t know where they were exactly, but they didn’t feel seriously lost. And I know when things are lost  –  I lose my wallet or phone three times a week.

I wasn’t too worried, because a mate of mine has my spare house-key. His place was on the way to my destination, so I sped around there and if I’d been another, less law-abiding citizen, I would have phoned him on the mobi as I went.

“Hey Steve, I’m coming over to pick up my spare key.”
“You driving the Camry?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll want to find some kind of ramp structure – maybe the Convention Centre roof or something – and you’ll need to hit it at about 120 k to get airborne…”
“Okay – where are you?”
“I’m in Hobart for Bevo’s wedding.”
“And you’ve got my front door key?”
“Right here, buddy. Safe”
“Awesome. Cheers, Steve.”

Turns out Steve was also in Tassie with some shoes of mine that he’d borrowed.  So my spare key and my dress Florsheims have been inside the Wrest Point Casino and I haven’t. This is why I have to get organised. Get a day planner. A journal with sections and dividers. Maybe even a Blackberry or something. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to people who know what they’re supposed to be doing the next day.

Cheers,

Clive

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