Bright Side Relinquished.

If you know a good exorcist, let me know. I'm beginning to think my flat is seriously possessed.

On Tuesday night, I came home from work around 10:30 and settled in to watch Obamarama unfold live on BBC World. Around 11 pm, I heard a large wooshing noise right above my head, and the heavens-or rather, my potlights-opened and poured rain. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. It is unusual for it to rain from your ceiling. I was a little concerned, too. Especially when it didn't stop, and then when cracks started appearing in the ceiling and it rained from there, too.

I rain-oops, Freudian typo-ran upstairs to knock on my neighbours' door...Nicole and Vicky are trainee solicitors and all around good folk. Vicky opened the door and I apologised for intruding so late, but that we were having a little precipitation problem downstairs. She turned pale and said Nicole was in the bathtub. We both ran down the hall and she banged on the door.

"Nicole," she shouted. "The lady from downstairs is here, and there's a problem, water is coming from her ceiling." (Editor's Note: I hate being called "lady," especially by people close to my age. It makes me feel old and uncool.)

"Oh nooo," wailed Nicole. "But I'm just using my birthday bath bomb from Lush! Are you sure it's me? I didn't fill the water up very high! If the water's yellow, then it's my bathwater."

Sighing, I ran down the stairs and inspected the water that was quickly filling the pots and pans I had quickly scattered around the living room, pausing to admire the new cracks and the new potlight-waterfall that had started in the kitchen. I peered into my stock pot. Yep, the water was definitely yellow. I trudged upstairs to report the news to Nicole and Vicky.

Nicole emerged from the bathroom in a bright pink fluffy bathrobe. The girls were very apologetic, as was I. We all trooped downstairs, and I tried in vain to reach any of the plumbers from whom my property management company, Foxton's, guarantees 24 hour, 7 day a week emergency coverage. Funny, but none of the plumbers picked up the phone, or had voicemail. I left several scathing-bordering-on-offensive messages on Foxton's answring machine while the girls admired my decor, and we had a good if inappropriate giggle at the fact that my ceiling was apparently about to fall in. The girls called their landlord, and he promised to send a plumber round in the morning.

Sure enough, Nicole, her fluffy pink bathrobe, and the plumber arrived at 8 am yesterday morning. He inspected the water that was still pouring in. I, meanwhile, was on the phone to Foxton's trying every argument I could to get out of my lease so that I could move out of this oh-so-trendy-but-oh-so-uninhabitable-mews:

- The mice (oh yes, did I mention those?)
- The cockroaches (dead, but still gross)
- The intermittent electricity
- The stove whose dials have all been scrubbed off so you can't tell if you're grilling, convecting, or ventilating, at what temperature or for how long,
- Watermaingate 2008 (see previous post, "Brightside Revisited")

My property manager was suitably apologetic and was on the phone to me several times yesterday guaranteeing workmen of all kinds (for professional reasons, people, get your minds out of the gutter), compensation for Watermaingate 2008 and the ceiling, painting the living room, getting me a new stove-you name it, he promised it. I begrudgingly accepted. Although I would prefer to move, it appears the law isn't on my side and I would have to forfeit my considerable deposit if I moved. By the time I left work last night around 11:30 p.m., I was feeling cautiously optimistic.

Until I got home. I went to put my keys in the front gate and it wouldn't open-it stuck. This has been happening for a few days, so I jiggled my key in the Yale Lock. I rattled the heavy black iron gate. Not moving. Maybe I had the wrong key, I thought. Both the key to the gate and my front door look alike. I tried my other key in the lock, turned it, and it sheared off, leaving half the key in the lock. I buzzed every flat in the property, trying to get someone to let me in. No one answered.

I gave up at this point. I sat down on the street and wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I called Foxton's emergency 24 hour service, and pressed "2" for locksmith. They provided two numbers. I called both. One told me he wasn't interested in coming to help me. The other never picked up his phone and never called me back. I called a colleague still at work and had him Google "24 hour locksmiths, Shoreditch." He gave me 5 or so numbers. I called them all. One informed he wouldn't come unless he had authorisation from the owner of the property. I said, "I'm the tenant, my landlord lives in Singapore and I don't even know how to get in touch-are you telling me I have to spend the night in the street?" He said yes. I called him a filthy name and hung up. The rest just didn't answer.

At this point, the evil villain of Watermaingate 2008, from the off-licence who had broken my water main and just shut it off rather than repair it, took pity on me and pried the remnants of my key out of the gate, picked the lock, and let me in the gate. I gleefully skipped up the stairs to my flat. OK, so it was 12:30 and I'd just spent an hour in the street after putting in a 15 hour day at the office. At least bed was nigh.

When I got to my front door, I could hear Currie Cat meowling piteously for food on the other side. I frantically dug in my bag for my keys. Pulling them out, I realized my horrible mistake: the key I'd sheared off in the gate wasn't the gate key.

It was my front door key. I was still locked out.

At this point, Gategate 2008 was born. I called my parents in Canada and had THEM Google locksmiths, who I called one by one until I finally found one who was willing to come, but was an hour away. I said OK, and settled down on my front doorstep to wait. Currie was practically strangling herself on our front window miniblinds, trying to get my attention. She couldn't understand why I wouldn't come in.

Eventually the locksmith arrived. He was about 17 and he brought a Chav friend. They were both in tracksuits with shaved heads and attacked my door with gusto. With an electric drill. It didn't look like a particularly "locksmithy" way to do things, but at this point it was 2 in the morning and I didn't really want to quibble over technique.

The Chavsmiths managed to wrench the Yale Lock right off my door. Thankfully, they put a new one on, and 2 and a half hours and £200 later, I was home.

Foxton's got some choice voicemails around 12:31, 1:48, and 2:17 this morning. I haven't heard back. I can't imagine why.