This morning, in the lift up to my fifth-floor office. It’s quite packed, and two of the people vacuum-packed into the car are a couple of classic Clackers (as I’ve mentioned before, and shamelessly borrowed from The Devil Wears Prada . They are so-called (albeit dismissively) for the sound made by the stiletto heels they wear as they walk up and down the marble floors.

Someone, who I later discovered to be a reasonably able-bodied youngish man, pressed the button for the first floor, which provoked such an expression of slack-jawed incredulity in the taller of the two Clackers, that I feared her head might explode. I was tempted to provoke that into happening by giving her a glimpse of my shoes (they have a rather gaping hole between the leather and the sole, a hole which Superglue is fast losing the battle against).

“Oh my God ,” she said, perfectly audibly (but as if you even need to raise your voice in a lift). “Getting the lift , to the first floor ? Who does that?”

Er... Someone in this very lift who

a) presumably has their reasons
and
b) Can hear you!