Someone got stuck in our lift yesterday. No, it wasn’t me.
Unlike other buildings I’ve lived in, the engineers came out quite quickly, and it was working again almost before I knew it was gone.
People have actually asked me if I’m afraid of lifts. Well, no. If I were, I’d be screwed. Or at least much thinner than I am.
As I’ve said before, I have no issue with stairs if friends and beer greet me at the top.
But the place where I choose to burn my popcorn, take my shoes off and live must have a lift.
And sometimes those lifts don’t work. I’ve missed concerts, appointments, really good chocolate and hours off my paychecks due to faulty lifts that mean I can’t leave my flat. On those days, the party comes to me.
And yes, I have been stuck in a lift. I’d just come back from shopping and so my friend and I ate sushi while waiting to be rescued.
I’ve also been stuck in boxy “open-air” stair-lifts. Up in the air. From my vantage point near the front door, I greeted people I knew as if sitting in a box suspended off the ground was something I did for fun. I was on a first-name basis with the engineers who took the call-outs for that building.
All of this has provided me with an interesting excuse for days off, a cool vantage point from which to people-watch, some nifty refunds and good stories to tell n the pub. Which is where I’ll be tonight. If the lift works.
And the story I’ll tell will be the one where I got in the lift after work today, and the belt from my jacket got caught in the door. And I really did look to see if the belt was attached to the jacket, and therefore to me. It was not. The belt crept higher and higher up the doorway. I stayed on the ground. And then I made it to the ground. I held my breath until the doors released my belt, and the lift released me.