ADVENTURES

I live in the biggest room of an old Queenslander, and the door to my room locks automatically when it shuts. I am concerningly obsessive-compulsive about checking that I have my key with me before I leave the room, because I don't have a spare one and the very thought of being without my bed and my bike and all my STUFF is so awful I can't bear to look it in the face.

UNTIL NOW.

Yesterday, I locked my keys in my room. It was about 8:55am. I was sleepy and in a rush to get to uni and--look, don't judge me okay, the point is it happened. I realised as I was shutting the door, and almost as quickly realised that howling "fuuuuuuuuuuuck" wasn't going to open it for me.

So what did this genius do?

Actually, for the next part of the story, you need to hear about the layout of my house. It's built on a steep slope (thanks Paddington), and my window looks down onto the path that goes down this slope to the back yard. The window is maybe four metres off the ground.

Anyway: I once left my keys at a friend's house and managed to climb through my open window with the help of a rusty washing machine-shell (a harrowing experience)--I figured I could manage a repeat performance.

I dragged the first height-boosting apparatus I laid eyes on--our green wheelie-bin--down the path, parked it exceptionally unstably under the window, hoisted my self wobblily (a word) onto it, and looked up at my window. My really, really closed window. So closed. The most closed it has ever been.

That's okay! the plucky, resourceful part of my inner monologue piped up. It's a sash window! Maybe you can jimmy it up a little bit, with one hand on the bottom wooden cross-piece and the other on the glass pa-

CRACK. SMASH. "FUCK!"

You bet your butt-lovin' britches that window fucking broke. Considering it was made sometime during the Cretaceous period (we think) it's remarkable that it even had glass in it; less remarkable, however, that the glass broke into many large pieces, and many, many more microscopic razor-sharp invisible dermis-lacerating grains of what I like to fondly refer to as 'angry sand'.

No no, said the plucky voice - this is a blessing in disguise! You're only a little bit bleeding! And now you can get a good grip on that wooden cross-piece--this window will be up in no time!

Bear in mind that during all this the window-sill is at the level of my wheelie-bin-boosted collarbone. Foolishly giving that plucky little shit a second chance, I removed most of the glass shards and put one hand on this windowsill to steady myself while I tried to lift the (50 kilo) (at least) window-frame.

STAB. "FUCK!"

Of course the window was covered in angry sand. Of course I had to go back inside, remove the razor-dust from my palms, fetch the brush from the dustpan, grouchily re-position the wheelie bin, and sweep the sill of its spiteful, sparkly freeloaders. Of course things were about to get worse.

My house, being a Queenslander, has a semi-open basement in the area otherwise occupied by the stilts required to keep it steadfastly level on the wild slopes of Paddington. On my side of the house, this basement is enclosed by a sort of picket-fence-style set up: evenly-spaced slats of wood set against horizontal beams, and stopping just short of where the house itself starts. And a damn good job they do, because in that little space is where I wedged one sneakered foot to boost me a little higher as I gained purchase on the bottom of the now-empty window frame.

As I wriggled my grip, testing the weight of the window (still 50 kilos), my toes already being pinched numb in the picket-fence-gap, my original support, my companion from the start, my stalwart booster wheelie-bin, turned betrayer and fell the fuck over.

Maybe the pressure of supporting my in my struggle against injustice was too much for him. Maybe he was never suited for the treacherous terrain of the inner-Western suburbs. Maybe I'd just readjusted his position carelessly (unlikely). Whatever the reason, there I was, dangling from the bottom of an empty window-frame and one sneaker, a solid stream of swears issuing from my fear-distorted lips.

"aaaaaaaaaAAAAAHHH FUCKSHITTINGSHITBALLSARSEFUCKINGBITCHFUCK!"

Don't panic! yelled the plucky voice (that fucker). Don't panic! It's going to be fine! Just--get your other foot up on a foothold--okay--you're stable (all the while I'm thinking theframeisgoingtobreakthewindowframeisgoingtofuckingbreak)--now just, lift it up--

And I did. I like to think the same kind of survival mechanism that allows women to lift cars off their children allowed me to save my skinny arse from certain disfigurement and injury. I lifted that fucking window enough for me to fling myself forward through it in a maneouvre that even now I find difficult to comprehend. Even more impressive is that I managed to wriggle through, cursing at the top of my lungs the whole time ("MOTHERFUCKINGARSESHITCUNTPIECEOFCOCKSUCKINGCUNTSHITTER") as the window frame was attempting to crush me with its ever-increasing weight.

Nevertheless. I did. I She-Hulked-up and got myself through that colossal squeeze--I can only imagine how ridiculous it would have been from the street: a pair of legs flailing in a sort of buttefly/breaststroke hybrid, accompanied by muffled swearing--ending up on my glass-covered desk, triumphant, feet out the window, breathing heavily and still cussing at the top of my lungs. My housemate didn't even wake up.

Anyway, I got my fucking keys and got to uni and now my window has a massive hole in it and I'm cold.

THE END.