There ought to be clowns

It was one o'clock in the morning, and I was opening the door of the Roman monastery where I am staying, after having spent a wonderfully entertaining evening with my friends H and C. I turn the key in the lock, but the door doesn't open. Ah ha, the deadbolt! I put my key into the deadbolt and turn once, twice, and... end up with a stub of a key. The damn thing broke. I was now effectively locked out of the monastery. What to do? Fortunately, my friends hadn't yet driven off so I could go back and spend the night at C's apartment. I was concerned, however, that I might not make it back in time for an early morning appointment, and C was rightly worried that someone else might get locked out of the house because the rest my key was still stuck in the keyhole. Reluctantly, I rang the doorbell—half out of pity for the poor brother whose sleep I was disturbing and half out of shame for being caught out in the wee hours of the morning. I need not have worried. No one answered the bell. I tried phoning, but I could remember only the fax number. Okay, call directory assistance. They couldn't find the number. Crap, crap and triple crap. C thought the police or fire department could help us, and I remembered that the Carabinieri had an office just down the street so we drove there. Closed. The sign said to call 112 in an emergency so we did. No one answered. Driving back to the monastery, we came to a police station. Could they help me? No, they could not. Call the fire department was their advice. We had the presence of mind, however, to ask if they had a telephone directory. They did so we looked up the phone number. The policeman dialed the phone and handed it to me. No answer. Try it yourself, C said. Maybe he dialed it incorrectly. Still no answer. Okay, let's call the fire department. Apparently, they handle this sort of emergency all the time. Could they help? Yes, they could. They could break down the door for me... for a price. When I (quite unreasonably) balked at having the door broken down, they suggested I telephone the monastery. It was now two o'clock in the morning, and we had come full circle. I had resigned myself to going back to C's apartment, but she convinced me to give the doorbell one more try. After ringing three or four times, the speakerphone crackled with life, and the weary, wary voice of an angel said, "Sì, che è?" Fortunately, he believed that I was who I said I was, and opened the door for me. So, in case you weren't keeping score, I have now ruined my reputation among the brothers by staying out until an ungodly hour, ruined the reputation of my Order by admitting to all the emergency services of Rome that I was out until that hour with two beautiful women, pissed off the brother door-keeper and probably cost the monastery a €100 house call from a locksmith. Add to this, feeling like crap today because I lay awake the rest of the night practicing my apologies to all involved. Not bad for one night's work!