Love In An Elevator

I’m trapped in an elevator.
No, this isn’t some kind of colourful metaphorical description to the state of my life or my fear of developing claustrophobia. I’m actually in a lift.
It’s a little embarrassing. I’m in Luxembourg airport, which sounds quite exotic and exciting, but this isn’t a skyscraper lift breakdown like you’re expecting. I’m not stuck between the 52nd and 53rd floors with a beautiful Swede and a bottle of champagne conveniently placed for emergencies such as this; if it was, my name would be James and i’d have a knack of flirting hideously with the bosses secretary. I’m actually stuck between the ground and 1st floor, in an elevator that only moves between the floors and is completely transparent. Epic fail you ask? I concur.
The only reason i’m stuck in this ridiculous lift, with the constant threat of the cable snapping and my receiving a twisted ankle, is that I wanted to go in a foreign elevator to see if they were different from the UK. Maybe a voice would announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, be prepared for the ultimate transportation between floors!”, but in French. My childlike search for excitement within modern technology in a distant airport proved to be my downfall.
Whilst a team of mechanics gathered at the bottom of the lift shaft and a lady with a megaphone tells me, and half the airport, to remain calm in broken English. It’s about now that I start to ponder something eloquent and more pertinent than ever; something my father once said to me, ”Get off my shoulders you lazy bastard!”