I was just stuck in one for 15-20 minutes.
It was in my apartment building, I was going up to my flat on my own.
Everything was fine until it halted on the 9th floor. I waited a couple of minutes, pushing pretty much every button except the emergency call button, but then I finally did, feeling embarrased.
A loud siren sounded and a phone dialled, but nobody picked up. My heart sank.
I sat on the floor contemplating what this meant. Will I miss the football? Did I leave my door unlocked? Will these groceries spoil? And then I looked around and realised. There was no air supply. None.
I phoned my landlady and asked her to contact the site manager while trying to keep thoughts of suffocation at bay. She said she would try and get the details for me. I waited another 5 minutes, and by this point 10 had elapsed since the incident. I'd had enough.
I phoned 999 (the emergency services):
"What service?"
"Fire"
"Patching you through"
...
"Hello, Greater Manchester Fire Service"
"Hi, I'm stuck in a lift on xxx xxx street, postcode xxx xxx"
"Have you pressed the emergency button?"
"Yeah, it isn't working"
"Dispatching a unit now, please keep calm"
...
"So do these things have air supply?"
...
...
...
"Hello?"
...
...
"Hello?!"
...
...
"Are you there?!"
The connection dropped. My isolation returned.
I phoned again, I mentioned I had been disconnected. I asked again if there was an air supply.
"I don't know, sorry"
"Do they normally have them?"
"Sorry, again I don't know"
This wasn't the reassurance I was expecting, but it was nice to hear a person's voice. She was from Bolton. I could tell by the accent. It's where my family is from originally, so it felt good to hear from them.
I appreciated she had other, more burning issues to attend to (pun intended) so I hung up. This time my isolation was brief, my neighbour had heard the alarm and came to help. He didn't know what to do but, once again, the company was appreciated.
I asked:
"So, do these things have an air supply?
"Erm. I think so."
"Yeah, me too mate"
We shared a laugh, but it was one of nervousness. Of apprehension.
I started to feel lightheaded and hot. I'd been in for about 15 minutes. I began to worry about the oxygen supply, so I prised open the doors. Fresh air piled through the doors and I took a huge gulp of air, something I had rationed until this point.
Suddenly the lift started to move, going down to the ground floor. It opened and I rushed through the door, not giving the lift a chance to trap me again. The fire service turned up as I escaped and I told them their services weren't needed but I appreciated their help. They seemed happy enough and left.
I walked up the stairs and called my landlady to finalise the situation and report a fault. And now I'm having a cider and watching football. Liverpool better fucking win.
It was in my apartment building, I was going up to my flat on my own.
Everything was fine until it halted on the 9th floor. I waited a couple of minutes, pushing pretty much every button except the emergency call button, but then I finally did, feeling embarrased.
A loud siren sounded and a phone dialled, but nobody picked up. My heart sank.
I sat on the floor contemplating what this meant. Will I miss the football? Did I leave my door unlocked? Will these groceries spoil? And then I looked around and realised. There was no air supply. None.
I phoned my landlady and asked her to contact the site manager while trying to keep thoughts of suffocation at bay. She said she would try and get the details for me. I waited another 5 minutes, and by this point 10 had elapsed since the incident. I'd had enough.
I phoned 999 (the emergency services):
"What service?"
"Fire"
"Patching you through"
...
"Hello, Greater Manchester Fire Service"
"Hi, I'm stuck in a lift on xxx xxx street, postcode xxx xxx"
"Have you pressed the emergency button?"
"Yeah, it isn't working"
"Dispatching a unit now, please keep calm"
...
"So do these things have air supply?"
...
...
...
"Hello?"
...
...
"Hello?!"
...
...
"Are you there?!"
The connection dropped. My isolation returned.
I phoned again, I mentioned I had been disconnected. I asked again if there was an air supply.
"I don't know, sorry"
"Do they normally have them?"
"Sorry, again I don't know"
This wasn't the reassurance I was expecting, but it was nice to hear a person's voice. She was from Bolton. I could tell by the accent. It's where my family is from originally, so it felt good to hear from them.
I appreciated she had other, more burning issues to attend to (pun intended) so I hung up. This time my isolation was brief, my neighbour had heard the alarm and came to help. He didn't know what to do but, once again, the company was appreciated.
I asked:
"So, do these things have an air supply?
"Erm. I think so."
"Yeah, me too mate"
We shared a laugh, but it was one of nervousness. Of apprehension.
I started to feel lightheaded and hot. I'd been in for about 15 minutes. I began to worry about the oxygen supply, so I prised open the doors. Fresh air piled through the doors and I took a huge gulp of air, something I had rationed until this point.
Suddenly the lift started to move, going down to the ground floor. It opened and I rushed through the door, not giving the lift a chance to trap me again. The fire service turned up as I escaped and I told them their services weren't needed but I appreciated their help. They seemed happy enough and left.
I walked up the stairs and called my landlady to finalise the situation and report a fault. And now I'm having a cider and watching football. Liverpool better fucking win.
