Locks have played a starring role in my life over the last few days, writes blogger Andy Toft.

First I took my camera to Willenhall’s Lock Museum which is celebrating its 20th anniversary.

I have to admit a vested interest at this point as Willenhall is my home town and like everybody who grew up there my circle of family and friends includes people who worked in the lock industry.

The stories of the town’s proud history as the world’s leading lock manufacturer – 98 per cent of all the planet’s locks were once made there – never fail to amaze me.

It’s hard to believe such a small, unassuming place could pack such a powerful global punch.

Now, of course, things are different and there are only a handful of firms still involved in lock making.

Even more worrying is the news that the Lock Museum – a wonderful little place based around a former locksmith’s house and workshop – may have to be moved brick by brick to the Black Country Museum.

That would be another blow to a town which grows more alienated from its heritage with every passing 24 hours.

The only way to keep the museum in the town is for more people to use it – so I would urge anyone who has never been there to pay it a visit.
It’s a real unearthed gem which deserves more attention.

One of the firms once based in Willenhall was Yale, which employed hundreds of the town’s workers.

But after my slightly misty-eyed visit to the museum I felt a good degree less warmth of spirit towards that particular manufacturer on Friday night after I decided to nip out for a quick pint down the local.

Normally I’m painfully diligent before leaving my flat, going through a simple checklist of essentials – wallet? check – phone? check – keys? check.

But for some reason on this occasion I only ticked off the first item before dashing out of the flat and – much to my instant regret – closing the door behind me.

Now the Yale lock is undoubtedly a fine invention, but the rigid finality with which it seals a door is a cold-sweat inducing reality check for the absent-minded.

The snap of the lock behind me triggered a switch in a previously dormant part of my brain as I immediately realised I’d left without my keys.

A hopeless pocket rummaging ritual ensued even though I was already painfully aware of the reality.

Mild panic began to advance through my veins as I frantically began to explore the options for regaining entry to my flat while still preserving what was left of Friday’s drinking time.

A call to my parents was the first possibility. They had a spare set of keys, but were about a half-hour drive away.

My nearest friends Dude and Debbie were away for the weekend.

Sleep in the car? A desperate option – rendered impossible by the fact my keys were in the kitchen.

The mind continued to whirr. How about an open window? Well it was worth a look.

Cue a dash downstairs and out of my block for further investigation.

After a couple of minutes scrutiny my bathroom and living room windows appeared to offer some hope.

The only fly in this particular soup of an idea was the fact that like most feckless, DIY-phobic men in their 30s, I don’t actually own a decent set of ladders.

Thankfully I knew a man who surely would.

My neighbour Rob is one of those proper, build-it, fix-it, no problem’s insurmountable blokes idiots like me need around them in a crisis.

Last summer he refitted my kitchen and bathroom, and then built a decking area outside for his fellow residents – feats that left me feeling, wholly, and quite rightly, inadequate.

By comparison my toolbox has remained unopened ever since it was given to me as a Christmas present three years ago.

Rob listened to my latest predicament before departing to fetch his ladders.

Worryingly though he revealed the extension for them was in the garage of a neighbour who had gone on holiday a couple of hours earlier.

My confidence in regaining entry to my first floor flat took another blow.

Still, a couple of minutes later we were standing below my living room window weighing up my chances.

I climbed up the steps, extended an arm and flipped my window open as far as it would go – so far, so good.

Now, how to actually haul my carcass up and into the room?

The distance between ladder and window was still sufficient to generate a huge amount of doubt about whether I would be back in my flat in a couple of minutes or flat out in the back of an ambulance.

Another concern was the knowledge that climbing has never been one of my strongest assets.

On the flip side, this was Friday night, I’d had a couple of glasses of wine and the beer pumps of my local were calling.

What the hell.

I climbed to the very top of the ladders, a movement which brought me about stomach-high with my very narrow window sill.

Below me Rob tightened his grip on the steps as I prepared for the final, crucial push.

Somehow, demonstrating flexibility that should have been beyond my 34-year-old frame, I managed to hoist my knee onto the sill and then dragged myself up and through my window.

Suddenly, much to my surprise and elation I was stood back inside my living room, adrenalin levels turned up to 10, staring back down at Rob.

And for once it was his turn to be impressed by me.

“You’ve missed your calling in life,” he said.

“You should have been a burglar.”

As for me, something that started out as a minor crisis, had developed into a curiously life-affirming experience.

I felt triumphant, all conquering, for once the master of all I surveyed.

This was a rare, and even if I say it myself, pretty spectacular victory against life’s irritations – one certainly worth celebrating with a pint.