"They change the access codes to the apartment complex every three months," Fitzbollix told me when I moved in. That was three months ago, as it goes, and in a tempest of moving and clearing and putting things away I gave him scant notice. There was probably drink taken too.
Cut to tonight and a taxi down from the even numbers, I tip the driver 80p and shimmy over to the door all botherless like. I put in the code. Door stuck. I put in the code again. Door stuck. Fuck. I move up to the next block and figure I'll get access around the back. Stuck stuck stuck, and then his warning about the access codes comes back into my brain.
11.40 at night, I try the property management company and then a number for emergencies.
The phone rings out. Bollix.
I try it again. It rings out again. Fuck fuck fuck. I start eyeing the pavement slabs as a mattress, pruned hedges the pillow, the wind and the rain and the shite of this disgusting November pelting my cold and heaving body in the small hours, my bed and my tea and my notes for the morning unattainable overhead.
I know there's a cot for me from whence I came, whether she'd like it or not, but I give it one more go and, finally, an answer. The woman at the other end verifies me, makes sure I'm not after the good china, and calls to me the new code. The door opens, the rain starts pelting, I drop inside my door and wonder how to craft a blog out of this smallest of dramas.