feeling listless

Life I was stuck in a lift tonight. I'd gone up to the University with my friend Fani for the first night of the new Popular World Music course and I was running late (as usual). I'd been to the loo in the basement and since the lecture room is on the second floor, I'd called the lift. Which was then taking an age. I waited. Fani called on my mobile, she was upstairs so I met her in the entrance hall by the lift. Which then went to the basement where I wasn't standing. Few minutes. The lift opens on the ground floor. There are already a few people in, but we managed to squeeze in. Doors close, lift leaves the floor. And stops.

I look at Fani. Fani looks at me. We look at the other people in the lift.
"Oh no, not again." Someone says at the back. "This happened yesterday morning as well."
Now two questions arise from this. Firstly, why didn't you tell us that the lift was prone to breaking down before we got on. Second of all -- if you know the lift might breakdown again with you in it ... why the hell did you enter in the first place!?!

We try pressing a few buttons. The second floor light is lit, and lift moves again. About three centimetres before stopping. We try the alarm. It's loud. It's piercing. No one seems to be hearing it.

I turn to Fani and tell her we've got a good excuse for being late. Fani nods. I'm panicking slightly. She's cool as a cucumber (which is so typically her). The woman who had said the lift had broken down the day before says she's a tutor and has no excuse. I agree.

And being the tutor in the group she takes it upon herself to be leader. So when the emergency phone rings, she answers it. It's the building security, who she is on first name terms with. "No." she says, "I don't know what floor we're on." I looked through the crack in the doors. I see the sign for the first floor.
"We're on the first floor." I say.
"We're on the first floor." I say.
"We're on the first floor." I say.
I say it twice more. At no point does she think it important to pass on this information. She's too busy telling the guard that she is late for her class. Her life drawing class. Asking him if he wouldn't mind going up, telling the life model which position to get into and for the class to start drawing. This seems to concern her more than the fact that WE ARE STUCK IN A LIFT.

I try talking to Fani, but for some reason she isn't in the mood for a chat about her new flatmate. But I need to talk. It's what I do in situations like this.

By now it's getting hot. The only air coming in is through the gap in the door, so it's also getting stuffy. I keep over reacting, thinking and alluding to the lift scene at the start of the film 'Speed'.
"Although" I say, "I'm assuming Dennis Hopper isn't in the basement planting a bomb." For some reason no one laughs. I realise I'm the wrong kind of comedian.

The phone rings again. I answer it this time, asserting my masculine authority being the only man 'on board'. It's the guard. He asks to speak the lecturer.
"It's for you." I say as I pass her the phone.
"Right thanks." She says to the phone. "And you've. Good. Thanks." She puts the phone down. "The lift engineer is one the way."

Everyone stands in silence, until five minutes late the lift starts to move. Everyone sighs. The doors open -- and we're back on the ground floor. Someone wants to get into the lift.
"Don't get in the lift." we say in unison. And we took the stairs. Which I'll be doing for the next ten weeks. I need the excercise anyway.

I ask Fani how she is.
"Bit tired." She yawns.