Your tax dollars at work

Well, haven't been in Calgary more than a month and today I frittered away quite a few tax dollars. Started when I popped outside the back door to shake a carpet. I immediately heard the sickening "click" of the security post, as it efficiently slid into place in the door jam. Oh my g-d! No, no, no!!! There I was, locked out of my house in a pair of ratty shorts, a ripped T-shirt and barefeet. And it was very cold. What the hell to do now?! I stood there, stunned. All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind...did I leave the stove on? Was water running? Now what?

I started roaming the deserted streets in search of....what?? No clue. Finally a woman appeared, walking with her grandchild. She tried hard to avoid me and crossed the street, but up to her I marched, introduced myself and as she re-coiled from this mad-looking bag lady wandering the streets with a carpet in her hands, dressed in beach-wear, I politely said, "Good morning, I'm your new (mental) neighbour and I've just locked myself out of my house while shaking this rug." What the hell I thought dragging the rug around with me would accomplish I have no clue. Lend credulity to my story? The grandaughter took one look at me and promptly started wailing.

Explaining the situation, I asked if I could use her phone to call...who? 911 seemed ridiculous, but eventually we both agreed that with no phone book (thanks to cellphones), the only thing to do was to actually call 911.

"911, what is your emergency? Do you need police or fire?" That almost stumped me right there. Did I need the police or the fire department to get back in? Dread seized me, as I pictured my firefighter son-in-law being the one to arrive in a fire truck to find me dazed and wandering the streets in such a state. I opted for the police. "Uh, well I'm not sure if this is an actual emergency, but I have locked myself out of my house and I'm standing out in the public thoroughfare half-dressed." Pause. Oh dear, said the sympathetic 911 operator.

She told me she would send the police. The kindly neighbour went back into her house and emerged with a fuzzy, turquoise bathrobe. I donned it gratefully and went back to sit on my front stoop to await my fate. When two of Calgary's finest drove up 30 minutes later, they found me huddled in a garish bathrobe with a carpet wrapped around my frozen feet. Professional to the end, they politely introduced themselves and proceeded to try to pick the lock. Another half hour later, we all admitted defeat. They called a locksmith.

Sitting for the first time in my life in the back of a police cruiser, I tried to make the best of this nightmare and began to chit-chat with my two rescuers -- both young constables, both extremely charming and understanding. I tried to turn the whole thing into a sort of social event, babbling on about the new premier, the mayor, the traffic, the speed limits, the coyotes, the rabbits......and on and on. Another half hour and the locksmith arrived. Two minutes and $80 later, I was back inside my home. But wait. The whole thing -- although beyond the pale -- had yet to conclude.

Not five minutes later, a fire truck raced up to the door and three of Calgary's other finest banged for entrance. Whaaaaaaat??!! Apparently, the police had phoned in a natural gas alarm; we had all noticed the odour while sitting in the cruiser. Because they phoned from outside my door, my door was the one upon which they banged. Praying one of them was not my son-in-law, I opened the door. After explaining the whole sorry incident, they left to drive around the neighbourhood to see if they could find the source of the smell.

As I said, lots of tax dollars wasted this morning.