WHO YA GONNA CALL? LINCOLN HEIGHTS LOCKSMITH TO THE RESCUE

I've been down with a cold for the past few days and I'm sure the Griffith Park and Catalina fires haven't helped. Worse, only an empty refrigerator awaited me in the kitchen. In desperation I beseeched a friend to bring orange juice and chicken soup. "I'm falling apart" I told her. On hearing she would come to my aide, I stood up to leave the door ajar for her arrival. Completing a series of unfortunate events, the door handle came off in my hand.

I'm resourceful, but this repair made the best of me. The door was (mercifully) already open, but the handle was not in the mood for going back on.

After fortifying my soul with chicken soup, I called a locksmith. Low and behold he arrived in twenty minutes. "You have a very good lock" he informed me. I was glad to hear I was safe behind my door. Ten minutes later, the charming man had fixed the lock. Seventy dollars later he was on his way. I closed my door and returned to bed.

As I closed my eyes, the phone rang. It was the locksmith. I had written his name wrong on the check. I went again to open the door. More Murphy's law, the door refused to open. The key would open the door (as he tested), but the door would not open from the inside.

I tossed the key to him out the window, laughing because if I hadn't written the check wrong, I would not have discovered that I was locked in. Ironic but fortunate, I had a visit from the locksmith.

He came in and again set to work on the lock. To test his work he turned the handle. Again it would not open from the inside. When I heard the door rattle we both burst into laughter. Now he was locked in too!

Chagrined to say the least, he asked for knife to pick the lock. My "good lock" opened in one second with the butter knife.

This time we tested the job from both inside and outside and happily it worked.

I said goodbye to my dubious hero and went back to bed.