Having failed to do anything remotely active for my birthday for the past 5 years, I felt it was high time to go pro-active and have some fun. After many deliberations, myself and a elite group of Rare-ites set off for Alton Towers.
I’d previously never been to Alton Towers, but as always when in close proximity to theme parks, I reverted to a 10 year old, running around like zombies were after me - which, indeed they were on one of the rides. Coincidence or premonition? Fortunately, I was armed with dual laser pistols, the obvious choice when dispatching the lurching undead. To my embarrassment, my comrade-in-arms took down one more eldritch creature than me, which I attribute to devious arcane forces acting behind the scenes against me..
We explored all the major rides, which due to our perspicacity in going on a week day had generally short queue time, though an hour wait for a minute ride still seems a somewhat strange tradeoff. The sheer acceleration of Rita was ridiculous - watching the train before us, one moment it was standing still, the next it was running at 200 mph and I could not see it accelerate. Something has to be said for a railgun as a method of launching. Maybe a use in public transportation? Hand the passenger a parachute, aim the railgun at their destination, and GO!
Driving back from a friend’s house last night, I noticed the car at the end of my street was damaged pretty savagely, the back end one fused lump of plastic and metal. I continued along, thinking nothing of it except to lament people’s driving. Further down I observed skid marks, a severely dented car and one missing paint and a wing-mirror, at which point my brain chipped in to tell me that all might not be as it should. I continued round the corner to see a van parked outside my house; more specifically, parked in the side of a car, outside my house. The van was still wobbling in an attempt to extricate itself from the car, presumably to continue it’s path of destruction through those remaining unblemished.
To be honest, I was in two minds about getting involved more than taking a photo of the number plate. My car was fine, though if I’d got back a couple of minutes earlier the repair it’d got back from the day before might have been the least useful service in the history of man. The car in front of me must have come to the same conclusion as it steered round the mess and shot off - I can’t criticise really, the length of time it took to sort out later would make anyone think twice.
In the end, it was the van reversing out to continue it’s reign of terror that forced my hand. As I jogged over, my first impression was that the man had been drugged, he was so completely out of it. Then the smell of beer hit me. I made calming noises at him, carefully avoiding the words such as police and insurance amongst other, more explicit words. Taking the keys out of the engine and pocketing them (hey, I could do with an extra van), I took the guy by the arm and sat him on a wall. Asking one of the onlookers from the gathering crowd to call the police, I moved my car slightly off the road to avoid a similar fate to the others on the street. 15 seconds later, and the guy is weaving down the street. Running after him, people tell me later, might not be such a good idea, but he starts running at that point, and the chase is on!
Unsurprisingly, his athletic abilities are somewhat lacking. His fighting skills aren’t so restricted, however, and he puts up a bit of a fight. Fortunately for me, he manages to fall over himself, seemingly more docile once stunned by the concrete floor. As ever, the cavalry arrives at this point, two of my neighbours down the street, who ensure no further misadventures before the police arrive.
All in a night’s work, for The Vigilante!
I locked myself out of my house yesterday.
The dawning moment of realisation happened a good step and a half towards the car, in a rush to get to the gym on time. Needless to say, I failed to run my allotted 7km that evening, though in hindsight the associated running around surely carried me a good portion towards it.
Now, in my youth, I was not unfamiliar with lock-picking, if for no other reasons than my chronic forgetfulness and the relatively simple locks on the doors. Finally, I had a chance to put all that practice into use… were my picks not in the house also. Other efforts involving credit cards and sticking my hand through the letterbox proved the house’s resilience beyond doubt. I suppose that’s a Good Thing, but not much consolation in these trying times.
The next course of action was to contact my landlord, in the optimistic hope of a spare key secreted in the grounds or at a helpful neighbour. Alas, this avenue too proved fruitless. Much love must thus be afforded my brother, who, after explaining my predicament and the exorbitant £150 fee for a locksmith, suggested the landlord post down a spare set of keys.
Now for the next couple of days, I’m staying at a friend’s house, spending their money and drinking their wine. Were it not for the limited wardrobe, I could see myself settling well into my new roll as hobo, slacker and general drain on society.
If your memory is as ignominious as mine and you’re sensible, it would be wise to leave a spare key with a neighbour. However, if you prefer a more.. exciting life, I would strongly advise installing flimsy doors locks. These have a proven track record of facilitating action-packed entrances as you kick down your door.
I’ve started buying in packs of ten.