The God of locks has taken umbrage with me.
When I picked up Lishman and Jesse from the airport it was snowing and the boot of my little VW jammed shut, with the cold, I thought at the time, but ten days later it still won’t open.
My front door won’t lock either. Well, it will, but only from the inside, and only so long as the key is left in the lock.
And tonight, I tried to get online to do my tax returns, but I couldn’t remember my password, so I’m locked out.
So that’s a trip to the garage, a call to Scotty to fix the door, and a call to HMRC to try and sort out my tax details. This last task will, no doubt, involve telephone queueing for hours, and then answering security questions along the line of what’s the name of my mother’s cat, after which I’ll be back at the point I am now.