Baddie and the 42 Steps
I don’t know the exact number of steps between the ground floor and my first floor appartment. I like to think that there are exactly 42.* That’s not a huge number by any means, but to my eternal shame, I sometimes take the elevator. When, say, I am carrying a lot of shopping. Or come home
tipsy tired after a long day. If given half a choice, I will take an elevator even if I have to go down flights of stairs. Yes, yes, I know, terribly unsporty of me and all that. And energy-wasting. And lazy.
Today, though, my gnawing conscience got the better of me and I decided to… drumroll … take the stairs. And so I started on my climb, beaming with pride and self-congratulatory feelings. The stairs in my building, as luck will have it, provide three turns. The first turn completed, I almost stumbled across an innocent blue bucket filled to the brim with Ajax and the like. My keen senses immediately informed me that something was afoot (apart from me, that is).
The second turn revealed the backside of a plump, mustachioed man. Who had a mop in his hands. And who turned to me with a complete look of disgust in his face.
I muttered “hello” and skulked past him. As my feet left small, telling pawprints on the still wet and nice smelling remaining ten steps, I could hear the man’s thoughts with the clarity of a crystal vase shattering on a marble floor: “for the love of God, woman, why oh why couldn’t you take the sodding elevator?”
PS. To cheer myself up, I went home and had this for brunch:
*If you haven’t the foggiest why 42, go out and buy / borrow / steal The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams now.