It had been a rotten day. The train had broken down and Cynthia had been late for work. The carriage had been packed, the air conditioner broke down when the train did, and they had all sweltered.
Naturally her boss blamed her and told her she'd have to work late to make up the lost time. She could type up the annual report for him. The draft was on the computer with cross references to all the graphs and photos that had to be inserted.
So Cynthia worked over-time, getting that blasted report ready. She knew that her boss would pay her for the extra time over what she had to make up but she still felt it was a bit of an imposition. And if she dared to complain her boss would look surprised and point out that it is part of your duties, you know.
So Cynthia worked on the report that afternoon. She stopped for a short dinner break and then back to it. Murphy was running loose, of course. Any time something has to be done, out pops Murphy like an evil little leprechaun.
For three hours after dinner Cynthia worked on that report. She was the last person in the office, possibly the whole building for all she knew. Even the cleaners had been and gone. Now, finally done, she was heading homeward.
Scooting down the corridor she smiled to see the lift waiting, doors open. She was only a few yards away when Murphy popped up. The lift doors started to slide smoothly together.
"The hell you going without me," yipped Cynthia and sprinted to jump between the closing doors.
She nearly made it. Halfway in and the doors collided with her, knocking her purse to the floor and catching her around the waist and pinning her there, half in and half out the lift. She waited for the doors to react to her presence and pop open, freeing her. It didn't happen.
"This can't be happening," groaned Cynthia.
She pushed at the doors and got no response. The way she was pinned she could get no leverage against either door. Neither could she quite reach the buttons on the wall, although they were tantalisingly close. She stared at her purse, holding a phone she couldn't reach.
She just didn't believe this. How can you get trapped half-way into an elevator? Trapped in one, yes, or unable to get one at all, these she could understand. But to be trapped half-in, half-out because the door jammed on you? Where were the bloody safeguards when you needed them?
She tried yelling for help. Great. She was yelling at an empty elevator and the sound outside the elevator was probably muffled. She was stuck until someone came past. Surely security people wandered around the building every once on a while. She'd have to wait for one of them.
Time passes slowly when you're trapped in an elevator. In Cynthia's considered opinion, it passes even more slowly when you're trapped half in the elevator.
The sound of footsteps was music to her ears.
"Hullo," she called, "I need help."
The footsteps stopped behind her.
"I say," said a voice. "Pardon me for intruding but are you by any chance in need of some assistance?"
For Cynthia, the temptation to say no, this is the way I meditate, was almost irresistible, but anyone dumb enough to ask that sort of question might just believe her and leave her there.
"Um, yes, please," she said meekly. "The doors have trapped me and I can't get loose."
"Ah, yes, I see. I know this is not the place for formal introductions but I'm Robert. Robert Worthington-Smythe, actually."
"How do you do, Robert? Ah, I'm Cynthia. Do you think you can help me get out of here? I seem to have been here for ages."
"Yes, I suppose you have. It's really quite late you know. And I can see you've been struggling quite a bit."
"Like I wouldn't struggle to get out of these bloody doors?" Cynthia thought. "What are you? A moron? Just get the doors open."
"Ah, how do you know I've been struggling?" she asked. "And do you think you can get these doors open?"
"Why, it's obvious you've been wriggling about," came the polite reply. "Your skirt has ridden up showing, forgive me for mentioning it, your panties.
