When Key-Rings Let Loose

A sequel, of sorts, to The Aftermath (October 26th). Meaning that they threw another party. Other oppurtunities, indeed.

Waking up shouldn't be this difficult. The mattress is comfortable, the sleeping bag more than adequate, and most importantly both are unshared. Waking up shouldn't be this difficult, but disturbing dreams can be annoyingly clingy. They whisper, and morph into actuality, and then it really is time to get up.

Toilet first. Pilfered hairbrush second. Café breakfast. Orange juice. Then tidy up... later.

You make your way outside with a blended sense of despair and purpose. Someone thoughtfully put a board down over the mud last night, and you are grateful, as you are sure you heard somebody go for a piss out here during the early hours of the morning. Amidst the smashed vodka bottle and the punch-laced polystyrene cups. Maybe it wasn't the early hours of the morning. If 1-2 are the early hours, then 5-7 must be the in-the-middle-on-time hours, and you doubt it was much before 5 when you were having the drunken debate on pacifism. Around another bonfire.

The ashes are white and beautiful, and this is what you came outside for. Apprehensively you search for an appropriate stick, for your visitation of the remains was not one of idle appreciation.

Fellow housemates have got themselves locked out before. None of them has ever lost their keys before. You know others that have, and it wouldn't be so bad if that was all that had happened. But resignation to dispossession of house keys by bonfire is a little hard to come by.

You poke at the shallow mound urgently, batting aside the charred, brittle beer cans. There's a flash of hope as you unearth a flat rectangular piece of metal, but you realise quickly that it's merely a fixture point of the bed that got thrown on. That must be where all the nails have come from as well.

It seems like a hopeless task, and you take a step back. Nobody thinks you'll find them, you don't think you'll find them, and it's tempting to give up. You could be focussing your energies on hounding the drunkard that threw them in in the first place, because if you have to get a new set of keys cut you're sure as hell going to make him pay for them. Instead, you start to sweep and sift with your spindly stick systematically, starting with the right-hand side furthest from the house.

When you get to the middle, the ash clings to some kind of form, black on the underside and still warm. The larger logs from the more mature hours of the morning still look like they might be able to give up a bit of the glow, and they're certainly heated and heating enough for the cool, clear, sunny morning.

A hoop. A spiral of metal. A surge of excitement and joy, you've found them. You hook them on the end of your stick, and give a victorious wave to those in the kitchen.

A little WD-40 later and they're perfectly functional, albeit still slightly warm. The number on your mobile is saved as "Drunk Guy" and you know that somewhere across town the poor bastard is waking up alone to find a moustache drawn on his face in permanent black marker. You'll leave him be, your keys are fine, risen from the ashes so to speak, and you now have a most treasured and unique variation on a key-ring.