Lift Off

There is something that can be either an exhilarating experience or just a big disappointment.

I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.

Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation.

Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the Art Deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous city scape views on offer.

At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.

A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place.

An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.

In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.

All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner.

The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.

The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment  was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.

In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults.

In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit.

Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade.

I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build and it was a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.

I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal actual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.

Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.

The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered.

Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indecipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy.

The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge.

The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.

At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an impending unrestrained plummet to the basement.