No photograph available. Do I hear an audible sigh of relief go up from my younger readers? I thought so.
This is what happened. Last night was my sleepover shift in Mingerton. All was relatively quiet. The natives were tired after their previous night’s restlessness. The current crop of paedophiles (real and imaginary) had been driven from the estate. Their houses had been satisfactorily pillaged and all their valuables and pretty things removed into the custody of their moral superiors. Anything that was flammable had been burned on an eighth night bonfire. All was quiet and I passed a peaceable enough night. The only snag was that I forgot to pack my sleeping attire and had to spend the night in my tee shirt. It was a small annoyance.
Until…. the next morning when I left my bed to attend to my toilette. Slam! That was the bedroom door closing against me. And there was I without my glasses, without my denture, without my keys, without access to a phone and, most crucially, without a knicker to my name.
So what did I do? I considered forcing the door but had a better idea. I wrapped myself in a large curtain and walked down two flights of stairs. No one saw me. I considered crossing the courtyard but then had a cleverer idea. At the front door of the block I was in I opened the door, stuck my top half round, pressed the buzzer and explained, over the intercom, my predicament to the security guard. She came over, with pass key, as quickly as she could, which wasn’t easy for her, seeing as she was wetting herself laughing at the cut of me. She said that at first she couldn’t fathom where the wee wild woman wearing curtains had come out of. But you know what they say – all’s well that ends well.