A turd in the lift

Yesterday the big lift was working (for once) but not a soul would go in it because sitting there, right in the centre, was a large poo.

"Is it a dog's?" I queried to others waiting for the little lift.

"I don't know," was the reply.

Being a curious kind of girl, I peered into the lift for a closer inspection.

A dark brown, nutty log. Not a dog's poo. A human one.

I have to raise my son here. It one thing asking people to clean up after their dogs but you do not expect people to defecate in small enclosed spaces that are not a toilet. We are not in China. (I have been, I can say things like that) I'm glad my boy wasn't with me at the time, he'd have found it funny.

The stool was no longer in the lift just now when I got back from the shops, but the lift still stinks. Then again, the lift always flipping stinks, of urine mostly.

Given that I live in Papier Mache Towers, I shall, from now on, call the lifts The Toilet. I don't talk about The Toilet much now my bike's got a shed and I don't have to carry it down the stairs, but should I allude to it, like I did this morning when I told of my social worker getting into the lift, it'll now be a sentence like "She got into The Toilet and left."

I'm labelling it under 'crime', because it is one.