Howdy, neighbour

Well. Last night was quite an event. I watched the penultimate episode of MasterChef, and, for all the frustrations (documented elsewhere), felt a bit hungry, having had a late lunch but no dinner. So, weak as I am, I ordered a Chinese takeaway (Szechuan hot and sour soup, and duck chow mein, if you're interested). Now, the building in which I live is currently undergoing what seems like interminable restoration, so I've schooled myself to go and collect takeaways from the delivery people at the front door rather than buzz them up and expect them to find me, especially as I live in Flat 2/L but it's on the first floor.

It arrived early than billed, as these things tend to, as I was halfway through a Bettany Hughes (swoon) documentary on the cult of Bacchus. Still, I paused the iPlayer and grabbed my keys, then set off for the lift. Big mistake. The keys I grabbed were those to my mother's house in Sunderland (where I'd been till Wednesday), and emphatically not the keys to my flat. As is always the way with these things, I realised with a cold sense of dread in the pit of my stomach as soon as the door swung shut and locked. And, as is also always the way with these things, I had no phone with me, no shoes on, no wallet. Merely the clothes I stood up in, and THE WRONG DAMNED KEYS.

There was a period of lighting up the sky with obscenities as I made my way to the front door to collect my takeaway. OK, I thought, do that, then think, think, think. So my little plastic-shrouded parcel was handed over and I trudged back up to my firmly-shut door. My first thought was that I should shoulder-barge it down and worry about it in the morning. A couple of runs at it and a large purple bruise on my shoulder today indicates this was not the way to go.

Right. So. I'd borrow a neighbour's phone and ring the 24-hour maintenance line. The two nearest neighbours - I rarely see other people in my building and I don't know any of them - yielded no answer. Either out or in bed. By now it was around 10.30 pm. Number three (that is, the third I tried, not literally Number Three) produced a tremulous female voice saying "Yes? Who is it?" I apologised for disturbing her at this hour and explained my predicament, and asked if there was a phone I could borrow to contact the property management company.

"No, sorry, there isn't," came the response.

I won't pretend that this flummoxed me slightly. I don't think I sound like a rapist or a murderer, and she might at least have opened the door, even if on the chain (I have one on my door, I assume she does on hers). But no, it was clear that there was nothing doing.

Maybe it's the anonymity of a big building; I live in a converted old school with (maybe?) 40 flats, so there is little sense of community compared to the terraces and semis I've been used to which had three or four flats at most. Still, it struck me, nursing a sore shoulder and a cooling Chinese takeaway, as uncharitable.

Onwards and (literally) upwards. I climbed a half-flight of stairs to the next flat I could find, knocked in my most non-rapist way on the door, and it was opened by a Middle Eastern man about my age, maybe younger. I once again explained my plight, asked him if I could borrow a phone just for a minute to try to get me back into my flat. (At this point I was beginning to imagine sleeping curled up on my doormat.)

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure," he replied, handing over his iPhone and accompanying me down to the notice board where the details of the property management company were pinned. I apologised and thanked him in equally profuse measure, but he swatted it away, and said he dreaded something like this happening to him. I think his name was Yusuf, but he mumbled a bit, and I was distracted.

So far, so good. There's a weird set-up in my building; the flat I rent was let by a local estate agent, but is run, to all intents and purposes, by a separate property company, who, in turn, sub-contract maintenance to another firm. Anyway, I rang the 24-hour helpline and once again recited my tale of woe.

"Oh no," the woman on the other end averred, "you'll need to sort out your own locksmith. We don't deal with that."

I fumed inwardly for a moment, while Yusuf nodded sympathetically and said "That's a bit shit."

Back to his iPhone, and a Google search for "locksmiths in your area". By now it was 11.00 pm. Fortunately, I found one which was still open, explained (again!) the situation, and texted my address. I was told that someone would be with me within the hour. Not great, as I'd hoped for an early night after Bettany Hughes and Chinese food, but not the end of the world. Of course, there was the complicating factor of how they would contact me on arrival, as I wasn't in my flat (so no buzzer), and the phone I was using was someone else's, so no number to ring. Well, I moved down to the lobby and perched by the front door so I would see any obvious tradesmen wanting to get in. I thanked Yusuf again, and he asked if I wanted a glass of water or anything. I declined politely - I had my Szechuan soup after all - but could have kissed him (not that I think he would have welcomed that).

As it happens, I hadn't checked my pigeon hole, and there were two Henry Jackson Society reports lurking in there, so I leafed through them and waited for my second saviour of the night. Now, I'm fatalistic in some ways; I tend to think that "within the hour" means "in 59 minutes". It ended up closer to 40, and I let the locksmith in with barely-concealed glee. He was a very cheery bloke, especially for someone who, as he told me, had been on call since 5.00 am, and he lugged his tool set up in the lift to assess the situation.

I had my fears. That he'd need to drill the lock out and replace it, or somehow do another sort of damage. Reader, I needn't have fretted. He produced from his case a sort of extendable arm with a claw on the end, which he was able to feed through the letter-box and catch the latch of the lock. I was back within two minutes. I could have cried with relief. It being late, he wanted cash payment - fair enough - and I explained that there was a cash machine at the end of the road, so if he gave me five minutes I'd go and get the readies and come back.

"Nah, mate, it's OK, I'll run you there."

That struck me as charitable, if also self-interested, but I accepted with alacrity. Funds withdrawn, and handed over, I made to bid him a good night and to thank him warmly.

"Hop in, I'll run you back."

Now that was above and beyond. He must have been dog-tired, but those tiny kindnesses transformed my evening. It left me thinking about how different our interactions with other human beings can be, depending on how we approach them. Neighbours, contractors, clients. The littlest things can mean the most.

Also, polystyrene. When I finally shut the door behind me (from the inside!), my Szechuan soup was still warm.