What a day…

I had just gotten back from a long overdue meeting that literally sealed the fate of our documentary. I was proud of myself. I had been able to lift myself from my customary Sunday vegetative state and actually got something very important done. I came back to a flat filled with the aroma (no, not just any old smell) of barbecue spatchcock (thank you, flat mate), a fitting meal, in light of my mild hangover. I dug my nose deep in the Sunday Times (thanks again, flat mate) and ate my heart out, bones and all. It was the perfect end to a productive day. I couldn’t wait till I got back to bed to read a novel that was turning out to be quite a find (eh, thanks flat mate).

Flat mate departs leaving me with the entire couch to myself and most importantly, the remote control. Ah…what a day. As I’m trying to decide whether it was cold enough to go fetch my blanket from the bedroom, I hear a series of very loud bangs. The kind of bangs that are accompanied by images of head on collisions or a car rolling over and over along the road. I am shit scared. I’m thinking my flatmate has just left and I know at least 10 other people who live in the neighbourhood. After attempting to call flat mate several times, I decide that this is something worth investigating. I walk out of the flat, phone in hand (thank God), but without shoes or a jersey. I bump into several neighbours sprinting down the stairs. Okay, this is scary. I eventually get to the bottom of the stairs, walk out the building and find a small crowd gathered on the road. Fok, okay, this is scary.

I soon find out that some drunk prick crashed his big four by four into most of the cars parked in front of the building. This prick found the time and energy to pull out of the mess and drive off. Thankfully, no human beings were in or near the cars. The car owners are understandably pissed off but I’m glad that the entire ordeal only amounted to material damage. Cool, now back to the blanket, the couch and the remote control. Yay, for Sundays. I get into the lift, and listen to the familiar whirring sound as it makes its way up the floors. The crank of a thing stops on my floor but alas, the doors don’t open. Okay, I’ve never been stuck in a lift before. I press the alarm button and fortunately, somebody is there to hear it. I scream “Help” through the closed doors, and soon after, I realize what a clichéd movie-like thing it is to do. The caring voice on the other side of the door yells back that they will call the security guard. I’m thinking, I know the security guard on duty, and his blank face does not strike me as one that belongs to somebody who can get me out of here. He just doesn’t look like the bright type.

Always remain calm, I think. I’m not scared. Just buggered that I’m not wearing shoes and it’s getting pretty cold in there. This mild irritation is compounded by the fact that my medical expert mother who has been in the nursing profession for almost three decades convinced me to take seven pills towards the fixing of me. She had to explain the whole thing to me four times before I bought into it - once in person, and three times over the phone. I had never ingested so much medication at one go. I could feel the tingling sensation of medication and blood traveling to my brain (at least that’s what I think it is). I’m thinking that if this medication and my body don’t make the best of friends, I’m better off outside this lift.

And so I call my brother to hear a friendly and soothing voice. I proceed to tell him about the accident and that I in fact suspect it was one of his friends who smashed into those cars, the one who drives a silver four-by-four and lives in the vicinity of where the car came from, of course. Ah…eye witness accounts…In the conversation, I mention, in passing, that I also happen to be stuck in a lift. The poor guy shrieks in a panic, not forgetting to mention how weird I am for not telling him this in the first place. He calls my mother, who calls me back, also in a panic. His girlfriend calls me, in a panic. His friend calls me, in a panic. He calls me back, in a panic, just before he calls the lift company, in a panic, I’m sure. He thinks the lift is going to go plummeting down the floors, with poor me, in it. This is all very sweet. But I’m thinking if the phone stopped ringing, I could actually find out about my rescue mission, if it did exist in the first place.

Thirty minutes in a stuck lift on my own, feet freezing, and antibiotic overdose induced nausea and constant calls of panic from beloveds, and all I could think about was the fact that I had something to post on my blog. Weird, this life.

And so the lift company takes its time and the not so clever looking security guard wrestles with the unrelenting door until it pops open. I’m glad to be out of there, especially because there was no handsome stranger to offer me his jacket and a shoulder to rest my frazzled head on. I ’m feeling even more nauseous. I’m very glad to be out of there.

As I write this, I’m thinking, why did that happen to me? What could it all mean? I came up with several answers that seemed just right:

When you leave the confines of your home, always wear a pair of shoes, take your cell phone with you too.
The lifts in my building are old and should be avoided at all costs
The security guard with the blank, not so bright look, can in fact, rescue one from a stuck lift.
It feels so so good to be loved.

Peace, love and light!
K!