The chocolate, a safe and a firemans axe - a sordid tale of desperation

Did I mention I like chocolate? No? Well, I do.
Since the Feckers got old enough to stand on a stool, my life has been one long round of trying to find new hiding places for my precious supplies. A few years ago I realised that my fool-proof system of hiding it in the brussel sprout bag in the freezer was in danger of being discovered (before this the Feckers wouldn't look at any foodstuff that required more than 3 minutes in the microwave).
A solution was sought, and very cleverly came in the guise of a safe.

"Just punch the number in and hey presto" the MD said.

Fantastic! Not only a place to squirrel away all me choc, but also somewhere to store all those things that had now come under the new Fecker rules of 'what's yours is mine, and what's mine is, very definitely, only mine'.

"What was the number again?" I said, late one night.

The MD reminded me.

"It says ERROR" I said.

"Don't be silly" he said, coming to rescue me from my slightly blonde moment.

"Okay, yes, it does say 'error'. You must have changed the number"

There followed a very rude response and then a couple of hours of experimentation with a screwdriver, a nail file and a hammer. There was even a nasty moment with an axe that was tried after we had dropped it off the top patio a couple of times.
To cut a long night short - we ended up phoning a friend who dabbles in locksmithery and he came the following morning to put me out of my misery.

"You put too much in there," he said "there is an internal reset button".

I learned my lesson. My supplies are now safely distributed between my knicker drawer, the breadmaker, the tin marked 'nails' and a, well, not going to say the last one because that is only for me to know!