Breaking into Your Own Home…

My brother told me this story that sums up busy parenting and goes hand in hand with locking my keys in my car while it’s still running and desperarately needing the, “are you sure?” option (that usually makes me scream!) when I’ve allowed my finger too much freedom and sent an email to the wrong person…darn it!

He had taken his car to the mechanic and had to leave it overnight getting a loaner in exchange.

He had his young, eight year old son for the night who wanted his football out of the boot.  As he retrieved it from the gym bag he realised he had been about to drive off without his duplicate office keys and a wallet which he pops in the bag for safe keeping while driving about town and parking in random places.  He is careful to leave no visible valuables in the car to incite possible theft and always attaches his steering wheel lock when vacating the vehicle.  He is an outstanding citizen.

Grabbing the football, wallet and duplicate office keys he set off in his loaner.  When he pulled into his driveway he reached into the glove compartment for his house keys and…yes…or more accurately, no…they weren’t there!  The mechanic’s was closed for the night; he was locked out of his house!

“Something always happens when we are planning special one on one time,” remarked his son with a cheerful smile.

“That’s all right,” he replied, “I have a spare set in my gym bag!”

“Where’s your gym bag Dad?”

“In the boot!”

“Which boot?”  The light was beginning to dawn!

The spare keys were safely locked in the boot of his car, padlocked behind metal gates, at the mechanic’s, until the following morning.

They walked around the house, like all of us would, secretly hoping for signs of gross neglect.  A lower window left open wide perhaps.  The best he got was a tiny vent window, in the upstairs bathroom, open on the latch. Not big enough to climb in, even for a young eight year old chomping at the bit to try, but enough to squeeze an arm through to open the larger window that could be accessed by a young accomplice.

The trick now was to find a ladder that would reach the window.  As a superlative member of the law abiding public he had locked his garage and secured the outhouses that may harbour a ladder for the trick and guess where the keys were?  Both in the glove compartment and gym bag in his car, safely padlocked behind bars at his mechanic’s…this is beginning to sound like a children’s story!

It was evening and the night was drawing in although to give Britain credit where credit’s due her summers have the added bonus of staying light until very late at night, way past young boys’ bedtimes!  But this wasn’t summer so the light was rapidly fading which meant that his neighbours were home.

He borrowed a couple of ladders and lots of suggestions but to no avail, nothing worked for the planned breaking and entry.

As luck would have it a fire engine was moseying down his road on maneuvers, why else would a random fire engine be moseying down his road?  He waved at it and it stopped, he explained his predicatment knowing their ladders would be tall enough to scale the Shard if needs be!

This is every eight year old boy’s dream, not only to see a fire engine, but to have one stopped by your father and get to talk to a real live fireman…this was turning out to be quite acceptable one on one time spent with dad!

“I seem to have locked myself out of my house,” began my brother, “and wondered if you could possibly loan me one of your ladders to get to a window?”

“Yes, mate, where is it?” and all three of them followed my brother and his son round the side of the house to investigate.

Out came the ladder, up went the fireman and click, open went the window!

My brother shinnied up the ladder, not wanting to exhibit parental neglect by allowing an eight year old to do the dastardly deed.  He crawled through the open window, unlocked the front door and while his son and the firemen replaced their ladder on the truck he put the kettle on for teas all round!.

I suggested that he could have been a burglar, he wasn’t asked for, nor did he have, any identification to prove he was the owner of the house, in England we are cautioned not to carry our driving licenses around with us…

“A pretty bold burglar with an eight year old in tow!” was his response!

“Clever idea though!”  I said.

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