It’s official. I have the mental age of a 10-year old.
Yesterday, after a long day out on the town, I was looking forward to putting my feet up on the couch. So naturally, when we got home, I bounded out of the elevator and rang our doorbell impatiently (yes, I do that sometimes just to be funny, even though Pépé is right next to me and I know no one’s home), trying to make Pépé hurry up, get out of the elevator and get his keys out to open the door. (I’m usually too lazy to dig into my chaotic bag to get my keys out)
The doorbell rang out loud before I noticed that Pépé was still in the elevator, and that written on the wall opposite, was a big Level 2 instead of Level 3.
I had gotten out at the wrong floor and rung the bell of the neighbour below us. I could hear the little muffled footsteps behind the door as the neighbour that I had never met, came to answer the door.
Naturally the mature thing to do would have been to apologise, admit my mistake and head upstairs. But nooooo, I dashed into the elevator where Pépé was doubled up with laughter, and held my breath for the door to close before bursting into helpless giggles.
Why the heck do they make all those doors identical anyway?