I spent last week studying for exams, literally locked in my bedroom.
One evening I forgot to remove the key from the bedroom door and hide it from the kids. This same evening our postman delivered a dehumidifier, which Papa unwrapped using a paring knife that he forgot to put back in the kitchen.
Some regions have a wet season and a dry season. England has a wet season and a moldy season, thus the dehumidifier.
Next morning at 9am, or 'late-o-clock' as it is known in pre-school parlance, Ali ran down the hallway and slammed the bedroom door. Then 'click'...she locked it.
My heart plummeted to my toes. I called Papa in a flapping panic. I summoned some helpful neighbours by flapping about some more.
We gathered nervously outside the door and planned. Our first strategy was to try talking the self-holding hostage into releasing herself.
We gathered nervously outside the door and planned. Our first strategy was to try talking the self-holding hostage into releasing herself.
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| "Send one million unmarked biscuits." |
"Ali, please unlock the door?"
Nothing.
"Please?"
Nada. Zip.
"Please?"
Nada. Zip.
We began to worry that the hostage had bound and gagged herself.
The guys talked about shouldering the door.
I dialed a locksmith.
Then suddenly - hallelujah - she spoke!
"Needa biscuit."
"Needa biscuit."
I stopped flapping long enough to slide a biscuit under the door.
"How about a biscuit in exchange for the keys?"
"How about a biscuit in exchange for the keys?"
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
"Ali?"
"Outa biscuit."
More flapping. Some swearing. Much gnashing of teeth.
The guys tried a screwdriver to no avail.
"No biscuit," commented Ali helpfully from the other side.
Papa had a thought: "Can somebody get me a knife from the kitchen?"
Swoosh - the tip of a paring knife slid under the door.
"Honey," squeaked Papa in falsetto, "why does our child have a knife?"
We remembered the dehumidifier. This memory triggered some swearing on the topic of remembering to return knives to the kitchen. And some swearing on the topic of remembering to remove keys from locks within child-reach.
Then we stopped swearing and wondered aloud if the paring knife was an olive branch. Was Ali now cooperating with verbal commands? Such a thing would be an exciting and unprecedented new milestone.
Then we stopped swearing and wondered aloud if the paring knife was an olive branch. Was Ali now cooperating with verbal commands? Such a thing would be an exciting and unprecedented new milestone.
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| Lifelines. |
"Biscuit."
"Please?"
"Nee. Da. Bis. Cuit."
The guys had the handle off the door now. But they found the key in a half-turned state, which made it difficult to push out. Papa dashed to the kitchen. Faced with a distinct lack of paring knives, he returned with the European substitute: a fondue fork.
Two fondue fork jiggles later and pop - out came the keys.
Realizing that we had run out of biscuits, Ali changed tactics.
"Here you go," she said sweetly, pushing the keys under the door.
"Here you go," she said sweetly, pushing the keys under the door.
Click: the door flew open. Papa swooped in to scour the landscape for any sharp objects in a fifty mile radius.
"Mama!" said my sweet, smiling cherub.
"Ali!" said her gullable mama.
"...Biscuit?"
