It’s not noding for the ages, it’s not particularly good, it should have been a daylog, but after the past two hours I feel that I’m entitled not to give a shit.

Scribbled between the tables and pictures on four pieces of paper


Not knowing what time it is is the single thing that might drive me insane. Each time the cheery voice of the security man chats forth from the emergency phone I’m too busy sounding unpanicked to remember to ask, and pressing the emergency chat button just for that seems somehow… impolite. Thankfully, this lift has no muzak. Today’s interior mind tune is the Hoodoo Gurus Castles in the Air - which I will have twisted into an appropriate theme tune if I’m stuck here long enough. I can only remember the first verse at the moment, but it’s a good one. Writing this, sitting on the cold black studded plastic floor, probably filthying up the butt on my new jeans ($59 easyfits from JeansWest- how I love their fitting system. It seems I’m missing some vital "girly gene"- not a great fan of shopping. Being able to walk into a store 10 minutes before closing and picking up an entire winter wardrobe straight off the rack- no trying on required- is a blessing.). Cool stainless steel walls- glad of my jumper and that it’s a cold day. Heat and stuffy air might have brought on an attack of claustrophobia. The first 10 minutes or so did threaten minor panics.

Why did the lift just sway?

Am I dropping?

What’s that creaking noise?

Straining my ears for the arrival of the security guard, desperately worried that he’d call out, not hear my reply and leave, thinking it was a prank or a mistake. I could go some water right now… but then I might have to pee. Butt is becoming numb, but sitting on the floor feels safer. Standing I’m too strongly reminded of the fact that I’m suspended halfway up a building in a metal box, with only an echoey shaft below. Movement, in fact reminds me of this. The lift shifts and groans with each step.

So I sit, back hard against the shiny steel, probably doing wonders for my posture. The contact board at head- height waiting for the next staticy burst of anti-panic cheer.

“How’s it going love? The technicians will be there soon”.

Next time I’ll remember to ask….

BUGGER! A new voice and I forgot. Female this time.

“Everything all right in there?”

I can’t help being flippant. What could really be wrong, in an empty lift? I’m tough, dammnit. Wish I had something to read, just an hour ago I rode up this same lift with a stack of papers……

It’s 2.10! And yes, I’ll let them know when I get out. Apparently they’re calling every 15 minutes.

papers that I seriously need to read for my literature review. The perfect opportunity- no distractions, a chance to write up the acid extraction chapter which is presently being written on the under-consciousness frequency. No data! Correct referencing is my downfall- who said what, where’s the data, the facts girl! Intuition doesn’t cut it in chemistry.

I think I’m glad I’m alone in here- no forced conversation or the nervy farts of another digestive system, no-one to panic and plenty of room. Claustrophobia only hits me when I can’t stretch my legs or if my head’s trapped. I get vile panic attacks in sleeping bags.

Damn, running out of paper, now writing in the spaces between scribbled painting concepts. The array of visual shapes that are failing to come together in a new and coherent form.
I need to find some way of subtly defacing this lift, something to mark the time I’ve spent sitting here with my arse slowly numbing since getting up and stamping about is not an option I care to even think hard about.

Daylogging from a stuck lift- bless E2, or I’d have nothing to do. The creativity fount is officially rusted and these surrounding are doing nothing to lubricate it. Have I mentioned that I’m stuck in a cold, stainless steel box?

This lift breaks down on a regular basis, though there’s rarely anyone trapped inside. The building itself won design awards in the 70’s, hardly surprising, it’s a speckled orange brick monstrosity. Something to do with the novel boomerang shape and missing-bricked corridors (a word derived from the Italian, as we learnt at trivia last week) that let in breezes, possums and rain. The lift was added some years later, as you can see by the paler brick shade and crumbling cement of the shaft. I suspect there were too many complaints about lugging soil and plant samples and instruments up four flights of stairs. It’s a 6-story building, but it goes uphill, losing the ground floor and gaining the 6th in the process.

The lift just shook

Hopefully this indicates the presence of technicians outside. Of course, it may have been a frustrated student pounding on the doors, who will turn up for class in 5 minutes, late and panting. Where’s the bloody tech...... wish I had my mobile with me to run up more enormous SMS bills.

Sod this

Time to stare at the walls and sing along with the Hoodoo Gurus for a while.

Song switches: Alice in ChainsMan in a box”. I shouldn’t find this as amusing as I do.

15 minutes till the techs get here? Fuck, I HAVE SO HAD THIS!

More jolts, not good.

Getting messages through to people is a pain in the arse. The box static doesn’t help, trying to convey that this has made me 2 hours late in starting my experiment and I may have to work through gym-time probably didn’t get through as intended. They’re going to think that I’m expecting to be stuck here for another two hours.

Let me OUT, for fucks sake!


“We’ll have you out in a tick love”


Lift drops.

Doors open.

No ceremony, just out.

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