21 Seconds To Go

No.

Not the seminal R'nB song by So Solid Crew, which wowed critics with its lyrical construction, all the verses being exactly 21 seconds long.

The 21 seconds it takes the lift at work to ascend to the sixth floor. These are the 21 seconds of which I speak.

The problem is not me.

The problem is the other people.

Perhaps some explanation at this point would be fortuitous. I am a morning person. When I say morning person. I mean I am hyperactive in the least instance of this particular character trait. I will enter the building with a huge smile on my face and a happy greeting for everyone around me, despite my misanthropicism. People getting into the lift in the morning with me can safely expect to be greeted with a hearty "God morgon!" (Swedish for "Good morning") and a grin to make even the Joker hang his head in make-up enhanced shame.

Other people, it seems, do not share my enthusiasm for another day of life.

My one goal in this world is to live forever. So far, I have a 100% success rate. Not everyone can boast this.

Other people seem discontented with their lot. They appear on Monday mornings filled with dread at the prospect of another week at work. They seem to forget that every week is topped off by two days of not working. The weekend is something to look forward to and to treasure. The countdown to it? Pure ecstasy.

The 21 seconds of lift time can only be filled with awkward chit chat. At best.

Swedish people are not great at chit chat. In the same respect as Britney Spears not being great at parenting.

Topics of conversation range from work to what proclivities took hold of them in their free time. Never does the conversation overrun. Never does it even make it to 18 seconds.

Except for once.

6 men entered. Not all left.

I was one of the six. A friend of mine another. He had just started learning Swedish at this point, in the way that everyone starts to learn a foreign language when they are immersed in said culture. Profanity first.

Observing the 6 men in a lift situation, he uttered forth "Oooh. Berg Hög". This translates roughly to "Big gay man pile". Tension was rife. You could have cut the air with a balloon.

Awkward laughs all round. Then the misplacement of possessions occurred. A single Swede attempted to refill his mouth's supply of snuss. Snuss is like chewing tobacco, except that you do not chew it. It comes in teabag form, but for the gums. Also it does not contain cancer either. But about 5 cigarettes worth of nicotine. The Swede fumbled his container and it clattered to the floor.

Bending over to pick it up was NOT AN OPTION for this man.

As the doors opened, he shuffled the snuss container forwards with his foot. The inevitable gap twixt elevator floor and level 6's floor approached like a monstrous juggling ball upon the poor snuss container. A swift kick from the Swede's foot sent it hurtling towards it, whereby it snagged on the slightly raised level and plummeted 6 floors to its inevitable resting place.

His loss was jeered by most, revered by none. Had he only waited 21 seconds in homophobic silence and inaction, he would be one snuss container better off.

The funeral for the container will be held in two weeks time.

Bring cake.