The Key to getting Keys

At long last (one month, or four months, depending who's counting) we have more than one key to the front door of the building.

Back in May, when Hubster initially rented the flat from a "lettings agent" who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Pox-Shuns) we were issued a set of keys. "No Problemo, Caped Crusader", he thought. "I'll just take them back to Boston and get a few more sets made".

So I took them down to Vinny, the local Hardward Store Man, (Ironmonger), who has cut keys for us for the past twenty years. None of the keys could be duplicated. The key blanks were completely different from any he had seen, and the skeleton key brought a few raised eyebrows.

Fast-forward to the days since August 16th. There are three of us who have the capability to come and go at will, and only one key to the front door of the building. This means that before anyone leaves the premises the whole days' worth of comings and goings must be orchestrated. "You are going out to do the shopping. I am going out for a walk. Who will be home first?" Whoever it is will be the Keeper of the Key for the morning, or the day, if everyone else will be out longer. It's a bit like an algebra problem. "If Train A leaves the station without the keys, and the engineer goes shopping, when will Train B arrive at its destination and be locked out?" Toot Toot!

Then if person (train) A has arrived home ahead of person (train) B or C, and decides to take a nap or is overcome by the sight of the sofa due to jet lag, when person (train) B or C finally does return home, they will need to ring the doorbell, which will produce a jarring effect on the consciousness of Train A.

The first weekday after our arrival, Hubster tried to get the front door key copied. It turned out it was a Security Key and no one would copy it without the proper documentation. I visited the Lettings Agent. There HAD been another set of keys, but Pox-Shuns had given them to the Landlord's Daughter. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Blogmama, but we don't seem to have any other keys." They said it like that was the end of the story. Of course, we were of a different opinion. They produced the name of someone at the management office (her name rhymes with "Elegy"). Two weeks of calling several times a week produced zero contact with "Elegy". We'd leave home numbers, cell numbers, and a plea for a call back even if there was no news, just to know she'd received our messages.

I finally took to hanging about the Lettings Agent office. They serve bottled water, soda, tea or coffee, whatever you want. I would bring my knitting and make myself comfortable while the "nice young man" from whom we leased the flat would try to make me think that they were addressing the Key Situation. The had corresponded with the company that manages the building itself, rather than their own rental-management office. They needed to get the top-secret key code from the landlord's solicitor. It being the end of August, all the solicitors in the world were on "holiday".

Meanwhile, we finally met the porter of our building. What a porter does is still a bit of a mystery to me, but it appears to include sweeping up the outside and taking the trash and recycling from the bins on the fire escape and putting them down in the giant rubbish bins near the side gate of the building for the twice-a-week collection by the Borough of Westminster sanitation trucks. We chatted with her for a bit, and explained our Key Conundrum. "Oh, you have to go all the way up to a locksmith in Hendon (two bus lines away) to get those keys. I'll let you know on Friday whether I can get them for you so you don't have to go all the way to Hendon when you get the key code". We have not seen nor heard of her since then. That was two Fridays ago.

The next time I went to Pox-Shuns with my knitting, I spent a little longer there. The other staff were beginning to recognize me. The receptionist knew that I'd take a bottled water rather than any other kind of beverage. I decided to keep her on her toes and ordered it Sparkling this time. I asked for the Nice Young Man. She enquired as to what it might be regarding. "Oh, he'll know..." I assured her. He was on the phone at the mo', and took at least fifteen minutes to come out to greet me, and looked very sheepish indeed. "Mrs. Blogmama! I am Sooooooo Sorrrrrrrry. Hasn't "Elegy" gotten those keys for you yet?" I assured him that we could not provide any evidence that Elegy actually existed.

He got on the phone and tried to raise Elegy. He tried five times. She would not pick up his call. I suspected that she was screening her calls, as was being as successful at avoiding his as she had been with ours. He decided on another tactic. He called her from his own Manager's phone. Still no connection with the elusive Elegy. Nice Young Man's final strategy worked. He called Her manager from His manager's line. At last!! The manager put Elegy on to speak with NYM. "Mrs. Blogmama!! I have Elegy on the line for you!!" I was so peeved at this point that I was afraid I'd be rude on the phone, so I let NYM do all the talking. The upshot of that conversation (on a Friday afternoon) was that Elegy would be sure to call us with the key code as soon as she had it. I had decided that in the interest of moving the process along more quickly, I would not wait for the Lettings Agent or Elegy be in charge of actually going to get the keys made; I'd do it myself. After all, I might as well see Hendon! (and find out where those bus lines go).

Finally, on Friday, the 19th of September, almost five weeks to the day since our arrival, I came home at 3:30 pm to find a message from Elegy on the answering machine. She had the code!! She would send it to me in an email. Of course, I could not get an internet signal at that moment (the broadband connections here are only occasional, after all, even though we pay the premium rate for the most bandwidth). When I finally opened the email, I had the name of the locksmith and the secret code. I had to search on-line for the locksmith's address and phone number. A quick call to them indicated that even if I left Right Now I wouldn't get there before they closed. They would, however, be open on Saturday from 9 to 1.

I had spent all day Friday walking around on a warm and sunny day, and was exhausted from all the effort. I didn't wake up until 9 am on Saturday, and attempted to get out of the house quickly. It took an hour. I was on my way up Finchley Road on the bus shortly after 10:15. Those of you who knew me in 1978 may recall that I lived on Finchley Road in Golder's Green that year, but this bus took a left before we got to my old neighborhood. I was counting on the driver to let me know where the Hendon War Memorial stop was. The Transport For London website gives good directions on multiple ways one can get from one's home to one's destination, and exiting the bus at the Hendon War Memorial was crucial to this plan. Unfortunately, English was not this bus driver's first language, and this route was not "his route", so he had no idea. Fortunately, the automated disembodied voice was working that day, and she announced "Hendon War Memorial", so I was all set.

After alighting I had to cross under the road via underpass, and there were four or five decision-points at which I had to decide, this turning, or that one? This ramp, or that staircase? It was like searching for the Minotaur in ancient Crete. Everybody repeat after me, a la Prof. Miranda Marvin: "The palace of Mynos, Knossos, Crete!"

A few more false starts, two stints of asking for directions, and I was on my way to Church Street. There were two fellows inside the locksmith's shop, a chatty one with a completely shaved head, and the other "silent partner", who could have been Jeremy Iron's younger, skinnier brother. Perhaps it was Jeremy himself. The chatty one informed me that I DID NOT NEED THE KEY CODE as a tenant, just the original key, and proof of address. I produced both, and had four copies made in a jiff. The silent one sprung to life when David Bowie's song Let's Dance came on the radio. "Guess we knew they'd play some Bowie sooner rather than later". The bald one tried to swipe my debit card in his little machine, and failed. There was no juice to the machine. Oh, so close........ After he tried in vain to replug all the connections, I was forced to leave the premises Without My Keys and go to the nearest bank machine. I finally ransomed the keys, making sure to keep the receipt, as I will taunt the Lettings Agent with the fourth key until I get reimbursed.

Thus endeth this reading of the Brit's take on Customer Service and Satisfaction. Their motto: "Let 'em sweat. We're busy making Tea."