…but I did think I could count to five.
Almost every time I come back home, fumble around in my bag for my keys, try to find the correct key for the outside entrance door and wiggle it around in the lock, the door never opens. This, however, makes perfect sense, since I live at number five and am attempting to break into number three. Arriving home after work today, I was -of course- standing outside number three, twisting the key around in vain. A lovely, little elderly lady, seeing my plight from the bus stop, came over to assist. We exchanged ‘oh, how difficult old, heavy doors are to open when the lock is stiff’ sorts of comments, before I realised I was not standing outside my house. I laughed awkwardly and tried to explain, light heartedly, that I wasn’t a burglar, just permanently confused about my address. She did not look as if she bought it and I fear she may have called the Carabinieri. I say fear, but in reality, judging by all previous interactions with them, they were probably on their coffee break and far too busy to attend anyway.
Life lessons learnt: My address. Check.