Realise keys have vanished.
Tear bag apart in the porch’s half-light looking for them.
Realise spare keys are at the Parents’, who are abroad.
Backtrack through Oldham.
Phone the housing people.
Agree to £44 charge to get locks changed.
Go home again.
Get lock mechanism drilled open.
Get into flat and lay stuff out in the full light of the lounge.
Find old keys between a bubble-wrapped envelope and the novel inside it, before the guy has even finished changing the locks.
Thank the guy; get new keys.
Eat, thus not dying of starvation / exhaustion.
Reach for 50.5% Wild Turkey. Drink substantial amount.
Realise most private housing firms / independent locksmiths would charge double what I payed.
Accept that shit happens.