of lifts and other scary moving devices

Taking the short cut to the kitchen to make a cup of tea at work I was pounced on by a lady in a woolly beret. “Are you going to the lifts?” she asked. We were standing in the corridor with six lifts. “I’m going to get a cup of tea, but don’t worry, you’re here. These are the lifts”, I said. “No , no, I need you to come with me in the lift”, she said. “I hate lifts. I avoid them. But I couldn’t climb 24 flights of stairs to get here either.” The poor thing had been waiting for someone who looked like they might be heading for the ground floor to hitch a ride with. Fortunately my desire for tea could stand a minor diversion to the ground floor. Besides in life’s great kharmic tradition, I can clearly remember being petrified by the escalators in Myers at Chadstone when I first arrived in Melbourne. Someone kindly helped me then, so it was nice to return the favour.