How do you solve a problem like locking yourself in?

It’s times like this that make you wonder if God is testing you.

It’s about 6am. A dream about Harry Potter taking too many Es in my garden wakes me up. I’d been out the day/night before, pondering the greatest questions while sitting in the sun drinking Strongbow. As I clutch my head, I realise that, given how little I remember, I was probably a bit drunk.

Counting on my fingers Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. It’s been an expensive extra-weekend thing, with me spending most evenings gargling alcohol.

But this morning I woke up, really needing a piss, and went to my bedroom door only to find it locked. Eh? I gave the handle a quick jingle, but it was definitely, firmly, truly-madly-deeply locked. I don’t know why I’d got into my head it was a good idea to lock myself in, so grabbed my keys and jammed them in the door.

It didn’t unlock.

Crouching down, I peered at the edge of the door, turning the key back and forth. The bolt that my key controlled was working fine, but keeping me inside my room was another bolt going through my door.

I went from crouching to sort of sitting in an odd yoga position on my floor and pondered. This was either (a) quite a conundrum or (b) I’d taken more pills than Harry last night and my perception was fucked.

I tried again. Still locked.

Something not dissimilar to a memory jabbed me in the head. Charlene, my housemate, had come in last night. I had resorted to watching Desperate Housewives (and shocked to see 24’s notorious President Logan has now moved to suburbia and needs a new kidney) and she came in to say she needed the shower at about 8am today.

Then I remembered. She’d gone, and as she left, my door handle fell off and we started laughing. Oh, what joy it is living in a house-share. Little calamities become the only thing you really have in common with each other and you learn to milk them.

AHAHAHA THE DOOR HANDLE FELL OFF we yelled.

She put it back on, and left.

Truly I felt like Sherlock Holmes as I paced up and down my room, my bladder fit to burst. I also had that fuzzy morning breath smell circulating my room, and it was starting to annoy me.

What I knew at this point - at 6.23am - was that my door was seemingly locked from the outside. I was inside. One housemate was at home in Bromley for the weekend, one was not on speaking terms with me (and would relish the thought of me being stuck inside the top room of a block of flats) while another - yes! Charlene had to get up early to have that 8am shower. She can help.

I got my phone and sent her a text, wondering how best to phrase the situation. Would texting her the lyrics to ‘Help!’ by The Beatles be a good idea? No. The reference would be lost. I’ll keep it simple, but also lighthearted, since I don’t want to scare the girl.

Hi! Fuck, sore head today. AHAHAHA THE DOOR HANDLE FELL OFF! In all seriousness, I’m trapped in my room, I’m about to piss myself, and it’s starting to make me have panic attacks.

What if Charlene left early, and there was nobody in the house? What would I do then!? I wondered if I could ring a Fireman and he might hack the door apart with an axe, but is that what I wanted?

I tried to recall one housemates words…she’d had this happen before, I think. What did she say she did? With my mind riddled with other thoughts - my breath, my sunburn, and the need to wee being just three - I found it hard to concentrate.

Then it came to me. She screwed the door handle off, and there was a steel rod going through the middle of the door that the handles were attached to. Sometimes, her handle misaligned, or something, and you needed to guide it back to the handle so it would work.

This felt like a small triumph, but it was fleeting. I didn’t have a screwdriver. In life, when you need something you don’t have, it’s hard to stop berating yourself for never having what is now considered a salient piece of equipment. As I tried using all manner of things in lieu of a screwdriver, I pictured the hardware shop down the road. Stupid, stupid me for not having a screwdriver.

As soon as I get this fucking door open, I thought to myself, I’m going to invest in a good flat-head screwdriver. For I had sunk to a new low, snapping a pair of tweezers (my good tweezers) and using one leg to gingerly unscrew the door handle so I could tinker about.

This felt like one of many hurdles that seem to follow me in life. For those unaware, I’ve locked myself out the flat, I’ve found pigeons roosting on my wardrobe, and at work this week, I spent some time ringing my own number, angry that the person I was supposed to be interviewing had a dead phone line.

Finally, the door handle fell off. I twisted the central bar and my door popped open with a satisfying click. Wandering into my hallway, a pair of feet whipped around the corner and the bathroom door was bolted shut. Then, after a moment, the sound of rushing water. Of course, Charlene needed the shower at 8am.

It would be some time before I could finally have a piss.