The Prisoner

Yesterday was not a good day for the Boy du Jour.

He'd decided to work home so that he could come out for a few drinks with me and Miss Wearmouth (now, alas, counting down her last few days as a UK citizen) after hours. He was working so hard that he didn't even try to leave the house til 8pm - so it wasn't til then that he discovered that I'd actually locked him into the flat.

Look, it's not as bad as it sounds.

Ok… maybe it is.

For reasons best known to themselves, the previous owners of my flat decided to install a Chubb lock that you can only access from outside the flat. Yesterday morning, a little frazzled and in a hurry to get to work, I double locked the door behind me, as I've been doing for the last year of living on my own. I didn't even realise I'd done it til I picked up seventeen voicemails from the prisoner sometime after 8pm, which would be about the time he discovered there was no food in the house other than a rather elderly packet of noodles.

However, while the cupboards were bare, I did have six bottles of really rather nice wine brought over a few weeks ago by dad and the Wicked Stepmother. At some stage in the evening (probably some time between my claim that I'd be "home right away" at around 8.32pm and my actual arrival at 11.54), the Boy unearthed these bottles and not unreasonably decided to claim them as a forfeit. By the time Emily and I eventually trailed in, bearing pizza and apologies, he seemed to be coping rather well with captivity.

You'd think that after an experience like that he'd have insisted on leaving the house at the same time I did this morning - but apparently that lesson is still to be learned. He's in bed with a stinking hangover... honestly, some people have no restraint!