Spacephiller, with Phil Creighton
THERE’S a scene in Doctor Who where the second Doctor has lost a trial and his penalty is death. Well regeneration.
The all-powerful Time Lords decree that Patrick Troughton should become someone else altogether, but recognising that his Doctor had done some good in his travels, they allow him to choose a new body.
The images are, in true 1960s lo-tech style, line drawings of an unlikely band of mugshots, none as likely to give you nightmares as my fizzog.
Patrick Troughton is not terribly happy at the choices: “No, he’s too thin. That one’s too young. Oh now, that won’t do at all,” he complains.
But tough, the decision is made for him and, before you know it, it’s Jon Pertwee lying face down in the woods having stumbled out of the police box. Now that’s another story altogether.
It was on my mind after a frustrating fortnight trying to get a key cut. Well, it’s actually a long-running saga that dates back to January.
Our front door is great, it keeps the outside out, thanks to a natty letterbox. But its five identical keys are, shall we say, a little temperamental.
There was one shopping trip where heavily laden bags caught on the key in the lock and snapped it. At least that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. It definitely wasn’t my miniature derriere wot dunnit, and woe betide anyone who dares suggest otherwise.
Thank goodness, the bit left in the lock came out without too much complaint, as that would have been an expensive visit to Aldi.
Then there’s the second key lost by one of the ankle biters, the third I bent (it was the shopping, and not my derriere, honest). And to cap it off, the one that was hanging up faithfully until it was needed. Somewhere between being placed on the hook and being needed, it decided to grab a one-way ticket to key paradise and it seems to be in no rush to come back.
So, four keys down, one to go. Surely a quick and easy job to get a key cut? You’d think.
First, try to a self-service machines at a big-box DIY store. Computer took one look at it, laughed (it was a weird electronic crackle that came with a sharp intake of digital breath) and then said no.
Undeterred, took it to a locksmith, which reminds me of one of my favourite jokes of all-time and it’s from Leslie Nielsen’s fabulous 80s comedy Police Squad! (in color). He’s playing a detective who goes undercover as a locksmith and lets himself into a suspect’s house.
She wants to know who he is and how he got in. Well, he deadpans, I’m a locksmith and I’m a locksmith. It’s the way he tells them.
Anyway, this locksmith cut two Yale keys from my one key. Great stuff, but only problem is, they didn’t fit in the lock. They were too fat. What is it with this lock and things that are too fat? Sorry, what is it with this lock and bags of shopping?
So we had another go with a different type of key. That fitted, but wouldn’t turn.
One of the lost keys turned up, so that was taken to a different locksmith, who charged an arm and a leg for a laser-cut diamond-encrusted (well, it should have been for the price it was) key … which was too fat, so wouldn’t slip in.
Finally, the original locksmith, who was sick of the sight of me, suggested taking the lock out and replacing it. He lent us his screwdriver and ruler so we could get the lock out and measure it (they have to be precise – too fat and … look, it was the shopping, honest…)
The new lock cost us £27, and came with five keys. All of which fit, turn the lock and restored harmony to our corner of universe.
And, like Patrick Troughton becoming Jon Pertwee, they look very different too. Still, it’s an open and shut case. Or door.
