Of combs and lifts


Yesterday I bought a fine tooth comb, and I have to say, what a fine comb it is too. The combination of probably too much hair conditioner, plus combing my hair with the magical comb, has given me a new, much suaver aspect. I suppose anything would have looked suaver than the broken mess that staggered off DL172 on Saturday afternoon, but still I’m happy with the visage presented in the mirror by the lifts in the hotel.

Which is fortunate, because I’m left with a lot of time to look in the mirrors.

It’s not just that the lifts are very slow to come when they’re called: five tiny lifts are not enough for a 14 storey hotel, especially when the lifts are the size of our toilet in Singapore. No, it’s because these lifts also have a zany sense of humour.

This morning I got in the lift, intent on going up to the 10th floor where my room is. Several more people got in after me, going to the 4th floor. The lift has doors at the front and the back (you enter through one side from the lobby, and the opposite side for all other floors) so when the lift reached the 4th and the doors opened, I got out so that the two ladies behind me could disembark.

Instead, the doors closed and the lift took them up to the 10th floor, and I had to stand around like a spare part on the 4th floor until the lift descended again, disgorged them, and then let me in again.

In their favour, they’re quite the quietest lifts I’ve ever been in, moving silently and smoothly up and down. Against that, there’s fashionable electronic music playing in them, JUST A BIT TOO LOUD, almost all the time. Why cant we have the peace of the sepulchre when we go up and down in mechanical contraptions?

I spent some of today working, and some of today trying not to be sick. Jet lag is leaving me with strange hot flushes and a confused brain. My head hurts and I feel bloated. I can only comfort myself by remembering this is pretty much a normal state of affairs. For somebody else. Why am I falling to bits?

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