A Life in Lifts.

I’ve been trying to think of more exciting things to write about, stuff that will draw in a few more views but I’m starting to realise I’m not all that exciting.

So – lifts/elevators. I wonder how many I’ve been in now? Bloody loads. Here are the main ones you’ll find. Hopefully you can handle the adrenaline.

1. The slow lift that helped me bunk off class.

My school had this white lift which would take about five minutes to get from one floor to the next. You get similar ones that go over short flights of stairs.

Unlike most other lifts it’s not fully automatic. You have to hold a button down for the full journey. The reason for this is the lift is slightly glitchy, and I may have exploited this once or twice in school. Just as the lift reaches the bottom exit door it becomes automatic. If, when it’s automatically levelling with the door, you tell it to go back up, it will almost certainly jam up and the door will remain locked. Time it right, and you have the perfect excuse to bunk off class (although you won’t be going far.)

2. The fast lifts.

You usually get these in shopping centres and they can be fun. I used to love them as a kid. Ride to the top floor and then drop back down. And they do drop. They drop with a sudden jolt that can leave your stomach in the air.

3. The massive fuck-off lift.

These are in hospitals and sometimes car parks and they’re huge. Average-sized lifts always claim to fit twenty people but they wouldn’t. This lift could probably fit a Mini. If someone standing at the opposite wall farts it’ll take about ten minutes to reach you.

4. The shithole.

These are the most depressing ones, but funnily enough abled people don’t use them so no stubborn people block the way. I had a shithole lift in my university. It was designed to transport beer barrels up to the bar, so you’d enter to the smell of stale alcohol and a smell similar to piss. In fact it probably was piss. For some odd reason pieces of carpet covered the walls, ensuring the rich scents were forever captured. You feel dirty exiting these lifts, but you have no choice than to use them.

I muse how stressful life would be if I had a phobia of lifts. Imagine that! In university I had to queue for lifts because apparently 18-year-olds aren’t fit enough to walk up two flights of stairs. The doors would open to a lift full of guilty faces. At first I’d look down and glance away but as I adjusted to uni life I perfected my fuck-you stare, forcing people out.

Lifts, where would I be without them? Stuck on the ground floor, most likely.


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