That’s “car” meets “saga”. Sorry, bit obscure.
It is commonly known amongst everyone in the whole wide world that my car key has a problem. The moulded plastic bit that should hold onto a keyring is worn and cracked, and so under extreme forces, the key can separate from the ring entirely.
Today, a co-worker gave me a lift to the bank, and since we were passing very close to the castle I stopped in to get my mobile phone, which I had forgotten to bring that morning.
FFwd to later on that afternoon. I remove my keys from my pocket (they were probably interfering with my karma or, more likely, my right testicle). Or, should I say, my key (that’s singular, there).
Like a finely honed analytical machine, my brain leaps into life and replays the last five hours of film. Maybe the key fell off somewhere in the office? Five minutes later, we can discount that possibility.
Maybe the key fell off when I parked the car in the car park this morning? Ten minutes of scrabbling in the dark later, we can discount that possibility.
Maybe the key fell off when I was sat in my colleague’s car? I borrow his key, and perform a quick hunt. No joy.
My colleague gave me a lift home tonight, to my warm house, and my spare car key. And who was waiting for me on the doorstep when I got home?
Kevin Spacey.