Lift

The silver doors closed in front of me, arrogantly confining me to my chamber of doom. I don’t like lifts. It’s bad enough being in an enclosed space, relying on electronic machinery not to plummet to my death, and then there’s the awkward silence that hangs in the air, as both you and your death-machine co-inhabitant decide upon whether to open conversation.

“Have you seen the London Eye yet?” a small, fat man with smooth ginger hair that reeked of cheap hair wax asks me, in an American tone that intrudes on my peace.

I didn’t reply. I’m never going to see this idiot again I thought, so why be worried about offending him?

I’m a polite person, but I haven’t got time for tourists. That doesn’t make me a racist, but I’m a fan of leaving each other alone.

Having had a dull day to this point, as I got into work at 06:00, and won’t leave until after the cleaner does (which is usually gone 23:00), I’m not in the mood for chit chat.

The American looks at me once more, desperately searching for some superficial conversation that will stimulate his pathetic life.

“From round these parts are ya?”

I’m assuming this is a joke, so I laugh.

He looks confused. “That wasn’t a joke pal!”

The British sense of humour is a special commodity, and foreigners rarely understand that we find almost everything about their nature hilarious. Their accent amongst other things.

The lift reaches the final destination, and as the Yank waves goodbye to what he must think is an old man in a suit, wearing a purple and yellow tie and harbouring rapidly greying hair, I push the inappropriately small button in my pocket, that he will within seconds feel the impact of.

Turning the corner just past the lift door, I get the wonderful chance for a glimpse of my fourth victim that day, as I tweet a photo of his ex-existence. The caption reads “Welcome to Britain, please mind the gap.”