I have just spent what were quite possibly the most maddening three days of my life. The lock on my apartment door broke. Here I am, all dressed up on a Friday night, ready to go out. As my handsomely dressed self scoots out the door, I turn liberate my keys from my front pocket and put it in the lock, turning it every so gently clockwise. Expecting to hear the familiar, almost ritualistic click as the door locks itself, you can imagine my surprise as the key just continues to turn and turn and turn and turn, much like Homer doing a victory dance on the floor.
Panic starts to set in.
After ten more minutes, reason sets in. I ll just phone the super. I think you can guess the answer to that one. I get her answering machine. I then proceed to phone her brother, who fixes things around the place.