Our new landlords at number 79 kindly provided us with two keys to the house. Marvellous. One for Lexi and I. Simple. However we need three. One for our home help, Shirley. Simple solution: get another one cut. I have been to eight different key-cutting places this week and each of them the answer has been the same: "Cannot." (Incidentally why are key cutting places located on the basement floors of multi-storey car parks? Are they placed there thanks to a collective cruelty to the people who have just locked their car keys inside their vehicle? "Well seeing as there is a key-cutting place right next to where I have locked my car with keys inside it that will surely remind that I ought get another set cut, but that doesn't help me get into my car now, does it?")
The eighth venue that I tried was in Bandar Menjalara, not far from home. A helpful bloke there took a picture of the key on his smart phone and said, in broken English, that he would try to get his supplier to send him the right key to cut. I went back the next day to find out that that key had not arrived but was assured that it would be there the next day. No problem. I returned again, it wasn't out of my way. Still no replica key on day three so he selected a key that he reckoned was a near fit and had a go at, in his words "modify." Watched by a Guinness sipping elderly Chinese man there was much grinding and rasping and then Mr Keys gave me a key that, to my untrained eye, looked pretty accurate, and said "Try first.". He refused any payment. I took it home and did try first. Of course, it didn't work.
I went back for my fourth visit this evening and was greeted almost like an old friend of the family. Mr Keys was working away, the elderly Chinese man was sipping away on his Guinness and had been joined by another bloke who alternated sips of his beer with puffs on his cigarette. "This is your fourth time," said Mr Keys. It felt more like my 104th time. Still undaunted he tried a different key this time and set to work, insisting that I sat down at the beer table. "Relax. Saturday," he said. "Happy hour." While Mr Keys grinded I supped the chilled beer with the elderly Chinese man and his younger associate and we exchanged pleasantries. Perhaps getting a key cut by a well-oiled ironmonger during "Happy Hour" wasn't the wisest of choices but the beers flowed and he assured me, after several more sessions of "cheers" that this time the key would work. Naturally there was no charge for the key and the chaps refused my offer of buying them another beer. So I took the key back home having passed a pleasant early evening.
Of course the key didn't work, but with such fine customer service as I had this evening did that really matter?