Britain loses, which is why I'd rather take the stairs.


In this country all lifts are programmed to sap the living souls of their occupants. You get into the lift and then wait an eternity, jabbing at the buttons in the forlorn hope that they might be connected to something. Eventually it realises it's a lift rather than a walk-in wardrobe and shuts the doors. Your captor now waits a while, pondering the endless infinity of space. Some time later, maybe a week, maybe a month, the slow voyage begins. I hope you brought a packed lunch, we're going three floors here! Just us your pension matures you arrive a few tens of feet higher than you started when you were a sprightly young thing. But let us rest a while, there's no hurry! Why open the doors immediately when there are so many fun things to do in the lift? The grim reaper circles as the sands of time run out and finally the lift lets you go back out into the world. Then it sits there with its mouth open, like the 'special' kid at school, if only you could remember that far back.

The Rest of the World

Press button in lobby – the doors open a fraction of a second before you thought you touched the button. Step inside and the doors close, patting you on the bottom as you enter. In the time it takes you to turn around, you've arrived at your destination floor, simply by thinking about where you want it to take you. The doors open whilst the lift is still moving and your foot hits the carpet outside at the exact same moment that the lift stops. Your face creases into a grimace as you think back to Blighty and wonder why Messrs Otis and Schindler send us the factory seconds.

But seriously, why are lifts in the UK so utterly terrible?

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