I won't lie. I proper belly-laughed when I heard some guys off my course got stuck in the lift of the Media School a couple of weeks ago. That stuff never happens to you. So when you fall to the same fate (in the same poxy lift ironically) on your own, the humour suddenly stops being so humorous. Especially when the very reason I'm in that lift is to go home for a shower and a poo.
A lot goes through your mind when you get caught in a metal box. Embarrassingly enough, my main worry was that I left my Facebook on in the newsroom, completely open to what has been coined as "Frape". This is the bastard child of "Facebook" and "Rape" - Frape. Anything can be typed into your Facebook status or to anybody else's in fact, that could land you in a lot of the brown stuff I was thinking about at the time. Usually there is no attempt to hide it nor make it seem like you. I won't disgust with the details, but next time I drop a meatball on a hairy carpet the three second rule doesn't apply. I'm not eating that.
As I ponder what I'll look like decorated over the walls of the lift when it crashes down to the ground, I start to worry about other things. Did I leave the oven on? Did I leave the iron on? Have I got asthma? No, it's fine Guy, you don't do ironing. Then the woman comes on loud-speaker just as I'm feeling better and kicks me in the teeth with this little gem: "Lift out of service. Please exit the lift". What a bitch. Any tips on how I do that, Houdini?
All this stuff that was sloshing round in my head happened in the space of about 40 seconds, but it felt like at least three minutes. The bitch then decided she'd had enough and took me back to the ground floor, crazy socks and tacky scarf not covered in Guy-mush like I thought. Underwear was though.
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