I just broke into a house. My own house, in fact.
Ten minutes prior, I’d locked up and posted the keys back through my letterbox, not expecting to need them again.
However, I soon found myself walking back down my driveway wanting to get back inside.
I even found myself walking to the front door, just to check the dog hadn’t eaten the keys or something. And with a sigh of relief (on behalf of my dog’s digestive system), I wandered round the back of the house to our secret cubby-hole, expecting to find the spare key. But, no . . .
There was no anger, there were no obscenities muttered under my breath, there was just a sigh of inevitability. For on my walk back to the house I had toyed with the possibility that the spare key would be missing, and lo and behold . . .
So I headed to the garage to arm myself with a thief’s greatest weapon; policemen have their notebooks, robbers have their dusty sticks. I crouched down and poked the stick into the letterbox, feeding it through until it brushed the metal key ring. I gently eased the point through the largest ring and, in one deft movement, flicked the keys up, securing them at a safe distance up the stick. I reeled it in and plucked my prize from the monsters jaws.
Or not . . .
Because, in a strange way, it felt like it had never happened. For once, one of my flights of fancy had come true but, seeing as I’d already lived it out in my head, it had kind of lost its shine. I was used to just picturing these thrilling scenarios, these chances to really prove myself and laud it over the mere mortals I surround myself with. But, now that I’d actually ‘lived one out’, well . . . it turned out to be a bit of a let-down, really.