What's wrong with me? (Answers on a postcard, please.)

It's undoubtedly the slowest lift on campus, possibly the slowest lift in the developed world, but I take it anyway. True, the stairs are right there to my left, but I take the slowest lift because I'm early for the meeting upstairs and don't want to seem too eager, because I've trekked back to my parking meter three times already and I'm getting some crazy blisters, and because it provides the perfect opportunity to check out my hair. (I know. I'm a woman obsessed.)

The lift only travels one floor, between ground and first, because, perversely, someone has decided to put the Disability Services office... upstairs. I can barely be bothered climbing up to it and I have fully functioning limbs. As the lift grinds painfully down I'm aware I'm being watched. A girl in the queue for the cashier's window is staring at me. "That lift," her gaze seems to say, "is for people in wheelchairs." Which it isn't, officially, but so overly-socialised am I that as I at last walk into the waiting lift I adopt a theatrical limp, for crying out loud!