The great thing about the day after Pentecost is that you get to go fishing, at least that was the plan. Walk the dog, get a coffee at the pick 'n steal, then head off to the fish zone. A simple, elegant, straightforward Monday solution and it was going so well. Then the key snapped in the lock of the front door.
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| The View |
I stared hard at that lock. Maybe telekenesis would move the key. No, it didn't, fail. Then I tried to pry the key out of its lair with needle nose pliers, a knife, and nail cutters. That didn't work either. Useless. So what do you do?
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| The Cry Babies |
Sit around whining, like a cry baby, spoiled brat social justice warrior, and accuse the keyed up lock of oppressive gender stereotyping? Or maybe you stand there, open-mouthed like a Bass, hoping that the State will step in and fix the lock, with its big government magic?
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| The Cylinder |
You can try all that; sure, go ahead, just don't be surprised when your lock stays permanently broken. I chose a different path, I took the thing apart.
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| The Cam |
Getting the key out of the cylinder wasn't too hard and I took it to the hardware store, where a helpful keysmith cut me a new one, using the broken offender as a model. He assured me "it wouldn't work." Thanks, key bloke. But it did, and everything turned out fine, except for the fishing, which didn't happen.
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| The Fix |
So there it is, a fishing experdition stopped dead in its tracks by locksmithery. I'll have to make up for that tomorrow.
Cheers,
LSP
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