A cocktail party, sans cocktails

A sticky silence pervaded the small, strangley decorated room. It made me think that possibly the interior designer in charge of this one was suffering from some acid flashback at the time of decoration and thought people might feel comforted with carpets up the walls on two sides and a completely mirrored wall on another. A mirror which everybody was avoiding, in case they caught a glimpse of one of the other’s eyes.

There were about ten of us, all strangers, standing about, a tiny cocktail party but with no cocktails. I looked around for one of those pineapples with sausages and pickled onions on toothpicks sticking out of it. A snack hedgehog. But there wasn’t one.

Three well-dressed, middle-aged men stood together at the back, looking like overgrown schoolboys in their shirts and ties. I imagined they might have marbles or catapults in their pockets, and perhaps a half-chewed toffee.

In the mirror, I surreptitiously watched a flash of lust pass through the tallest man’s eyes as he looked at the pretty young girl standing next to him. She was wearing jeans that she must’ve put on when they were wet, so tight they were, and a low-cut t-shirt, the top of her bra peeking tantalisingly out above the neckline on one side. She smelt like Issey Miyake.

The frumpy lady in the corner was looking uncomfortable. She rummaged around in her bag for nothing in particular, avoiding eye contact with the fat man who was standing in her space. I felt claustrophobic for her. The silence was getting thicker as our time together lengthened.

Then the young girl sneezed. A chorus of “Bless you” and a ping to announce our arrival on the ground floor. The lift doors opened, a rush of fresh air, and our little cocktailless cocktail party was over.

Lifts. Strange places aren't they?

The Second Lift Phenomen

So I have spoken about the irritating-multiple-button-pushing-lift-freaks previously. There's another Lift Phenomenon I need to get out. It's also to do with human nature, I think, and is (in my mind at least), equally as intriguing. It's the phenomenon of In Lift Behaviour.

There seems to be something about being in a lift that makes people go all quiet and squirmy. And look up, at that little lit up box that would, in normal lifts, say G, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 but, in our, slightly eccentric and very old lifts, says E, F, G, H, J, K. There's another wonder - why do our floors have letters, instead of numbers? And, why did they skip out I? Initially I thought maybe they had something against vowels but then I (rather embarassingly) realised that E is a vowel too... I'd also like to do a survey to see how many people, per day, get out on G (aka 2) thinking it's the ground floor, and wander around aimlessly looking for the door outside. It could be dangerous you know - someone could walk out onto a balcony, not paying attention, and tumble over, thinking they're on the ground floor. Perhaps I should write to somebody about it...

I digress - so I came up with a theory this morning, as to why people in lifts seem only able to mumble unintelligably at each other, look at their watches, dig in their bags, watch the little screen etc. I think it's because they're in a small tin box, hurtling into the sky above (okay, maybe I've read too much Roald Dahl), and it feels like there is only a certain amount of air in there, so it's probably wise not to use too much of it up doing things like, say, exchanging pleasantries with the woman you've shared this very same lift with fairly regularly. For over ten years. God forbid that you should profer up anything more than a mumbled "morning" to my cheerful greeting this time - we might run out of air.

Ooo, did you see how my general musings whittled their way down to a very specific personal encounter? It just amazes me really. The way I think (and I'm starting to realise, finally, that perhaps it isn't how everybody else thinks, after all, despite my mother's reassurances when I was a child), that I should, by this stage, know all my fellow lift partner's names, kid's names and ages and where they're going on their next holiday. If they knew the wild stories I've made up in my head about their lives, they might be more ready to spill the truthful beans on our shared lift rides into the sky.

Maybe I'm just too curious?

The Lift Phenomenon

Sometimes I am thrilled by human nature, other times I’m horrified. But mainly I’m intrigued. Like The Lift Phenomenon, for instance. What's that all about? I work on the fifth floor of a lovely, old building with an angel on top of it. Due to the fact that it is old, it has old lifts too. And they are somewhat rickety and can be a little bit, well, let’s just say, tardy. They're the type of lifts urban legends are made of - there are many, many stuck-in-the-lift-stories here. But, mostly, there are complaints of their slowness.

The thing is this though, why is it that people think that if they keep pushing the button (often viciously), the lift will come quicker? Do they really think that they have some super-power-like energy which travels directly from their finger tip, through the electrical wiring, to the little box that tells the lift that someone is looking for it, making the lift jump to attention, go faster to the floor that it was taking its current passengers, whip its door open and push its passengers out, and then whizz back down to pick up the impatient twit with a pressy finger and a super-power-complex? I think not.

It’s pretty obvious it’s Monday in my world, isn’t it?