ONE HOUR THURSDAY AFTERNOON

She came to get the car she’d lent me I’d hardly used and had left, the last two months, in the block car park.
On the way down in the lift it stopped at ‘2’ and a man got in.
She said, ‘when I was in here earlier it went up then down then up again.’
‘Hmm,' I said, 'an indecisive lift.’
The car didn’t start the first, or anytime, with or without the jump starter or by bump starting down the various gradual hills around here.
A passing, male, motorist said, ‘put it in second, dear,’ but she knew what she was doing.
We gave up when we ran out of road to run down and left the car parked outside the bike shop on Stokes with a mesaage on the dashboard explaining the situation.
She went off to the garage to get a tow and I made my way back home.

In the lift going up was the woman No. 4 fancies and’s got nowhere with. She wears a lot of make-up and the lift smells of her perfume which is a pleasant change from the smell of vomit in here last night.
She seems to shop everyday and is carrying two plastic bags in each hand so I pressed the button to her floor.
‘I’ll be glad when the other lift’s working,’ I said.
‘They’ll close this one then,’ she said.
‘True.’
‘But they need doing, it’s long overdue, they’re so slow aren’t they?’
‘Yes, indeed.’