Once upon a time (because all good stories must start with once upon a time to truly be good):
I went traipsing about London with my friend Bethany, who is fabulously zany, brilliant, and bubbly. After a whirlwind day of sightseeing and Tube riding, I collapsed into bed at a granny time of 9:30pm due to the effects of walking 6 kagillion miles while fighting the worst allergies known to man, which turned me into a verifiable snot zombie. I awoke to a pitch-black hostel room feeling energised and thinking 'Yes! It's probably around 5am! I slept soooooo great! I'll sleep a bit more and then OWN this next day' (in which we were traveling to Cardiff, Wales to stalk Matt Smith: 11th and most fabulous Doctor). I eagerly looked at my phone to confirm my flawless plan, only to discover that it was 11:30pm...For a brief moment I considered the fact that I had slept through the entire next day, assuming that Bethany must have gone to Cardiff without me, met Matt, run away with him to live in the TARDIS (sorry Mark) and leave me to my Rip Van Winkle-esque slumbers, but then I realised that was just silly.
What was not silly, and indeed extremely pressing: literally, was the realisation that I desperately had to pee. This involved fighting my way down a very long, dark corridor frought with the peril in the form of islands of people's belongings strewn about my path, eagerly lying in wait to entangle my feet and throw me to the ground, which would result in the very real possibility of my untimely death from a severe pillow beating at the hands of my 20 fellow bunkmates. But my bladder persisted in its complaint.
I trudged blearily to the bathroom, feeling proud of myself for remembering the key card to my room, without which I would have had to knock to regain entry, again resulting in an aforementioned pillow death. There were two rooms right next to each other, both with toilets, both offering relief, and I, I chose the one on the left, and that has made all the difference.
The next bit does not need to be narrated, but assume that I felt much better afterwards.
I washed my hands, sleepily greeted myself in the mirror, and turned the handle to the deadbolt. It turned fine, but it wouldn't stop. I kept turning and turning and turning the handle in increasingly faster circles, quickly awakening to the understanding that the deadbolt was not moving. At all. Which meant the door would not open. At all.
I stared disbelievingly at the traitorous portal. Then my A-type personality kicked in and I snapped into problem-solving mode. Because the hostel was a refurbished house, the door was not just a stall door under which I could squeeze. It was a very sturdy wooden door with a metal lock and deadbolt: so that exit strategy was not viable. I saw another door in the bathroom, but it was also locked and appeared to be a simple storage closet (or a door to Narnia...we'll never know). There was no window either, but that would have been impractical as I was on the third floor and not Spiderwoman. However, this also meant that it was boiling hot inside my tiny prison.
I began to panic at this point as my escape options waned. I tried the lock again, but to no avail. I realised that I had no other option. I had to call for help.
This presented its own set of problems. (A) I didn't really want to be a bother. It was quite quiet outside from what I could hear and most everyone in my room was asleep. (B) I'd never called for help before and had no idea how to go about it! Do you just scream bloody murder? Or is there strict protocol? Maybe I should gradually build to an insistent scream or maybe it was best to start at a high decibel.
I decided to start small with a demure, 'Ummm, hello?' I also decided that it would be an added good measure to knock on my side of the door, which felt deliciously ironic. I tried this routine and then spun the lock just to see if it had changed its mind about reconnecting to the deadbolt...it hadn't. I decided to go to level two. This involved adding a small, plaintive, 'help???' and 'please?' to my script. 'Ummm hello? Help?? Please??' *knock knock knock* This went on successively for about a minute or so, with the occasional lock spin, until finally, the sweetest of sounds reached my ears. A female Australian voice returned my request with a 'Hello?' back! (Her voice sounded remarkably like Claire from Lost...not a good thought to think in a situation like mine, so I am thankful the comparison came to my my mind afterwards).
I explained my situation and began laughing, because I finally realised how ridiculous and hilarious the entire ordeal was! The lady outside kindly asked 'Are you crying or freaking out?' I said 'both.' She then told me not to freak out and went down to reception while I contemplated what it would be like if I had to live in this tiny loo for the rest of my life. My sleeping arrangement would probably have been leaning over my legs in a yoga/toilet-using pose. Though at least I would have had water. Entertaining would be a nightmare though so I decided I should really evacuate as soon as possible.
Eventually, Kind Australian Lady returned with Reception Man, who, I could tell, clearly thought I was making up the whole thing. Unversed in the art of breaking helpless, sleepy girls out of toilet rooms, Reception Man's brightest idea was to ask me 'Can't you just break the door down?'
If only he could have seen my withering stare.
I explained my California origins and how this did not result in me growing up a female wrestler imbued with super-human strength, but he stuck by his suggestion.
I tried to break the door down. My body does not make a good battering ram. He should be thankful the least thing I said was 'Owwwwww.'
His next idea was to somehow shove a screwdriver under the 1/16 inch space between the door and the floor, which did work, but he had passed me an itty bitty screwdriver that stood no chance against the lock. I leaned my head despondently against the door and pictured how dating with a wooden door in between us would ensure purity in the relationship and help me not focus on looks alone.
Then Reception Man experienced a brilliant epiphany: HE would break the door down. All hail the chivalrous strength of the patriarchal man!
He began to pull, and pull, and pull on the door. And the door responded by cracking, and cracking, and cracking until finally he wrenched the door out far enough that the deadbolt slipped out and I burst out of the room into the arms of my Australian saviour.
After I hugged everyone I could see (which was just the Kind Australian Woman and Reception Man [whom I had decided to forgive for his 'break the door down' comment]), breathed the sweet air of freedom, and embraced my endless life of possibilities, I went back to bed.
And that is how I spent 30 minutes trapped in a hostel bathroom.
The End.
P.S. For proof that I did actually escape and engage in the pre-planned Doctor Who geekery, see photo below.
P.P.S. Had Bethany been awake, this entire episode would have been documented in film and print but, alas, you are only left with my blog post (though I'm open to screenplay options *cough* Disney *cough*
