Fobbing me off...

I heard on the radio today (radio 4 so it must be true) that research shows that ever individual has an average of just under two keys on their key ring that they have absolutely no idea what they were for. Dead keys - keys that used to unlock something, maybe still do, but the holder simply can’t remember why they had them.

Now, I don’t know why anyone would want to undertake such research or why Radio 4 would report it, but it sounds about right. For years I’ve carried around huge bunches of keys, half of which I’ve no idea what they are for or even if they ever unlocked anything at all.

This is particularly true of desk keys. Desk keys are generally without personality or differences, they are usually too small and fiddly and far too annoyingly boring to ever be noticed on a key ring. So after a few years, a change of desk, a matching cabinet or two, you usually have at least six keys which look pretty much the same, that you have never used, and that you simply can’t be bothered to remove. This is the road to key fob ruin and a very large bulge in your trousers.

We all know that getting keys onto a key ring is relatively simple process, but getting them off again is almost impossible and guaranteed to have you swearing and cursing for hours as you break nails, inset the edges of various denomination silver and copper coins, and thrust the ends of ridiculously sharp kitchen knives into the devilishly impossible puzzle that is the metal key attaching ring. Oh, the trauma of trying to wiggle keys off a key ring.

I don’t bother any more. My bunch (oo, er, missus) just gets bigger and bigger as my life rolls on.

I’m an adder you see. Instead of removing old keys when I get a new car / shed / house / desk / padlock / boat - I simply take the new key, ring and all, and add it to the old ring. I’ve even inherited whole bunches of keys and added them to my existing bunch until eventually I have a bunch of keys so big that it doesn’t fit in my pocket, dangles to my knees when the car key is in the ignition, and takes me half an hour to find the right key to let myself in my front door - and when I combine, I usually combine the fobs as well.

And just why are they called key fobs anyway? I always thought that a fob was a vest pocket to hold a pocket watch. Not that I have a pocket in my vest, not that I wear vests anyway, I'm not Gregory Peck (unfortunately).

I think that it’s time for a key cull.

It's hard though. My bunch of keys tells the story of my life. Look closely, you can see 'me' in their metal. They tell a tale, my tale, the places I have lived and worked, my interests, who I've worked for, the car I drive and the car I don't drive any longer, my passion (some say obsession) for rubber ducks, my secret drawer.

Oh well, there's nothing else for it. Last week my trousers fell around my ankles with the weight. Now where did I put my hacksaw and pliers?