The task was simple enough. Unlock the car. It wasn’t my car. This made the task slightly more complicated than expected.
Those underground car parking stations, surrounded on most sides by concrete, aren’t designed with acoustics in mind. At least, they aren’t designed with pleasant acoustics in mind. Perhaps they are designed to amplify screams and shouts, in the hope that someone might come running if trouble strikes.
No one came running. Thankfully.
You see … the electronic key has four buttons. I think it’s overkill, but the car manufacturer decided otherwise. There’s one to open the boot, one to lock the doors and another to unlock them. That last one is pressed just once to open only the driver’s door, but twice if you want all the doors unlocked. On this electronic key, that last one is looking a bit battered.
And then there’s the fourth button. It’s a red button. Not that the colour mattered in the low light of the underground car park.
The red button sets off an alarm.
The electronic key for my car has only two buttons. The slightly raised one locks the doors. The slightly recessed one unlocks them.
The slightly recessed one is in the same position on my key as the red one is on my parent’s.
The problem wasn’t that I set off the alarm in a location where it echoes … and echoes. The problem was that I couldn’t work out how to stop it. Of course it’s a toggle switch. I realise that now, after pressing every combination of buttons possible in a bizarre text-pede of thumb action that I can’t even manage on my recently acquired mobile phone.
Thankfully, no one came running. It was too embarrassing.
An hour or two later, I suddenly realised I’d probably unlocked the boot.
Thankfully, no one noticed.
Sometimes, skills don’t translate well when you’re tired.