Paraclausithyron

Bit of a disaster this morning. Not feeling my stunning best, I emerged from my lair something later than my wont, my garland a little askew. On staggering to the bathroom, the bedroom door slammed shut behind me, which at first seemed nothing worse than jarringly noisy. However, the the doorhandle on the hall side was working loose and despite my most determined grappling and intemperate turns of phrase (tempora noctis eunt; excute poste seram!) it gained no purchase on the catch whatsoever. There was clearly no way of engaging the catch (and therefore of opening the door) without taking the whole doorhandle off from inside the room (a prerequisite of which was, of course, opening the door). Bit of a bind, and one not easily wrestled down by a slightly delicate-feeling young woman arrayed in nothing but an indecently short slip and the remains of the previous night's eyemakeup. Nor, having yet to bathe, was I fit to be among human beings, and I think no swine or beasts of burden would have welcomed me wholeheartedly either, so I wasn't relishing the prospect of calling on the household for help. Luckily my (fully dressed) landlady came to the rescue with a ladder and a multi-headed screwdriver, gaining entry via a fortuitously opened window, a rich irony, since a breeze from same had been the cause of the calamity in the first place. I, of no possible use in the break-and-enter, listened to proceedings from my bath and hoped that the cries of consternation were prompted by the gradient of the ladder and not by any shaming detritus of my fitful night.
At present moment, my normal means of ensuring personal privacy represent a danger of permanent incarceration. My room therefore stands open night and day until someone at Canadian Tyre can find a way to restore doorhandle and dignity. Against the obvious symbolism, this in fact perfectly guarantees my solitude and chastity. I can't even dress toute seule. omnes clamant: ianua, culpa tua est!