A great post from guest poster, Scott, a frequent contributor to this site:
It is with great relief I write to you to explain the tragic circumstances of Wednesday night, April 6.
The mission – to leave my office in St Kilda Rd to collect my wife Belinda from the top of Bourke St at 9pm.
I followed Ted McNally out of the building, bade him as usual a fond farewell as he headed towards his daily taxi ride home, and climbed into my car in the underground car park. I drove up the exit ramp and realized the roller door was closed.
I reached into the console – no mill key. Shit! It’s at home! Think quickly! Think quickly!
Ted! My only hope! The GREAT WHITE hope!
Leaving the car parked in the driveway, I rushed back upstairs, forgetting all about needing keys in the foyer area of the building. I saw Ted’s shadowy outline, and (also forgetting all aspects of key requirements to re-enter the building) confidently lurched towards him via the two sliding glass doors to the outside of the building.
As I mouthed “Te…”, a taxi swooped from nowhere and took Ted off in its talons.
As I turned to return to the foyer, the glass door slid shut, requiring a mill key to re-enter the building.
It also (from nowhere) started to piss down.
Let us take stock of the moment.
- I’m outside the building
- I can’t get in it.
- It’s raining.
- I’m getting soaked.
- My car’s inside the car park.
- So’s my wallet.
- Is there cash in my wallet, anyway?
- 33 week pregnant wife in Bourke St, presumably getting wet, and probably more pissed off than a normal 33 week pregnant wife is.
I saw a taxi rank across St Kilda Rd and sprinted across, skilfully dodging trams, cars, and an oriental lass on an unlit bike. Prick!
My attempt to impress the urgency on Number 1 taxi in the rank was frustrated by several “What?”‘s, so I moved to Number 2 taxi, asking “Mr McNally, do you ever pick him up from back over the road?” “No!”
“Can you please contact your supervisor to ask the driver to return him here?” “No!”
I then discarded Ted, the GREAT WHITE hope from my list of options.
Returning to Number 2 cabby.
“Can you please drive to Bourke St and collect my wife – pregnant. blue dress, black hair, blah, blah, etc, etc, and return her here?” “No!”
Finally Number 4 , or was it 5, agreed and after explaining her name was Belinda, not Melinda, Linda, and not even Ted McNally (as was the call from the now interested Number 1 cabby), I scrawled a note indicating that Belinda should in fact agree (this time) to climb into this cab with this scruffy, hairy, little Mediterranean man.
I took off back over the road to the office, then realizing that if Number 4 (or was it 5) cabby did return with my beloved, how was I to pay?
I then saw a movement in the bank in the foyer of the building and mouthed to a startled cleaner behind the glass “Do you have a key to let me in?” Recognising this was doubtful, and lip reading the term “Get f*cked what do you reckon?”, I left him alone.
Holding back tears, I then started pummeling the roller door to the car park…for twenty minutes.
All of a sudden, the earth moved, the Red Sea parted, Sesame opened and the roller door lifted.
I noted 4 angry tenants behind my stationery (and now cold of engine) vehicle. Apologising profusely, whilst thinking “Get nicked”, I climbed into my car, turned the ignition, and for the very first time in its short history, the bastard wouldn’t start.
In full blown tears, rage, etc, etc, and amid taunts from our not so friendly it turned out co-tenants, the engine eventually started and with help from a borrowed mill key, I drove up the exit ramp and outside the building.
I was then faced with the issue of whether to wait for Number 4 (or was it 5)’s return or to chase him. I chose the former.
Twenty minutes later, a cab pulled up beside me and Number 4 (..5) yelled out “Sorry mate, I can’t find her, but I got a fare…see ya!”
I drove to Bourke St, wondering whether she was now dead, raped, or just plain pissed off, collected her and drove home She was relatively calm.
I was really pissed off when she found my mill key in my briefcase on the back seat on the way home.
Scott has suggested that readers might care to respond with examples of when they have asked the Lord “Why me, why does this only happen to me?”…and he responded with a thunderbolt and pointed finger “Because you sh*t me!”
Other examples Scott has cited are:
The day I took a short cut up the stairs in a high rise motel in Perth, rather than waiting for a busy lift, and locked myself in a Fire Escape for hours in 42 degrees.
The day I was with a mate and thinking he was following me to the urinal, for a joke I dropped my tweeds and jocks to my ankles and turned to him expecting him to laugh, to find a policeman piddling next to me with an unimpressed face