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7 Reasons Not To Get Stuck In A Revolving Door

Posted on July 11, 2011 in Posts | 0 comments

We’re in a revolving door. Mid-revolution. But we’re not going anywhere. We are, as the saying goes, stuck. There are eight of us in total. Myself, another man and a woman in our half and a family of five in the other. We’re all looking at each other. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

7 Reasons Not To Get Stuck In A Revolving Door
1.  Suspicion. Everyone is looking at me. I am the prime suspect here. Just because I am very close to the glass in front of me. Everyone thinks I touched it. Everyone thinks I stopped the revolving doors. I didn’t. I promise you I didn’t. I’ve had years of practice in these things. I know how to use them. I did not touch the glass. I did not. I try and make every sinew in my face as innocent as possible. But it doesn’t work. Everyone still thinks it was me.

2.  Blush. And because everyone thinks it was me and because everyone is staring at me, the colour races to my cheeks. I go a little red. Well, probably quite a lot red. Every sinew now suggests I am guilty. A bead of sweat trickles down my arm.

3.  Backwards Step. I want to hold my ground. I want to prove that it is not my proximity to the glass that has made the doors stop. But we’re not going anywhere. And every split-second that passes feels like a minute. There’s also another problem. I’m in a rush here. I really need to get to the gents. Suddenly my nerve is entangled in a battle of wills with my bladder.

4.  Realisation. This is pain. This is physical and mental torture. And the only outcome is that I lose. Either I move, which just gives my revolving door companions even more reason to suspect I am the culprit, or I just stand there. And wet myself.

5.  Decision. It’s not a hard one.* I move. It’s only a small step, but the significance of it is staggering. If I can paraphrase Neil Armstrong here, ‘It was one small step for Jon, a giant leap for the revolving door’s inhabitants.’. To everyone else this appeared as an admission of guilt. But deep down I don’t really care. Not now. I’ve come too far. And, like I say, I really, really need to get to the gents.

6.  Handbags. No sooner have I stepped back though, that I encounter another problem. A lady’s foot. Just the toes, but enough to make her exasperate. I’m not doing very well here. I turn my head and apologise. She smiles wryly though I suspect it belies a wish for vengeance. For a second I am pleased I am stuck in a revolving door. There isn’t enough room to swing a cat in here, let alone her handbag.

7.  Release. After what seems like hours – but in reality is probably less than five seconds – we are finally free. I make a sharp left for the toilets. I don’t look back. I just want to forget the whole sordid affair. I make it to the urinals without further alarm. But then someone stands next to me. And out of the corner of my eye I can tell who it is. It’s the man who was holding the hand of the woman who now has a bruised toe. Has he followed me in? I lose my nerve. I can’t bring myself to go. So I pretend to go. I count to ten before heading for the sink. And then I head out, to tackle the revolving doors once more. Only I use the normal door instead. Because the revolving doors are stuck.

*Which only goes to prove even more that I wasn’t touching the glass in front.

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