Water.

Pissing it down for 10 days now. We live on the top (seventh) floor of a crumbling old building. Rain hammers on the roof, threatening to pour in through the cracks in the ceiling.

Our cat-, people- and perhaps everything-hater neighbour, Monica, reaches the top of the shared stairway. Breathless, she shakes her umbrella and fumbles for her key.

"Joder!" she swears, breathlessly.

The lift’s broken.

*********************

I got home two hours earlier to find all the building’s residents standing outside on the street. There'd been a fire in the building. Everyone had been evacuated, just in case it spread. Fingers crossed.

Tomás (4th floor), a solitary, passive, defeated-looking man of around 50 was standing with his well-behaved dog. Lucky, Monica wasn’t there or she and the dog would have been squaring up to each other. Tomás nodded to me. I nodded back, West Yorkshire on a Monday morningly.

Montse (2nd floor), a lost-cause alcoholic slurred something into my face. As she was trying to speak she lost her balance and grabbed onto the arm of José, her blind husband. He tottered a little too. The blind leading the blind drunk.

The lift had been on fire. Inside, firemen were spraying water into what looked like a no-longer-on-fire lift. It did smell strongly of burning plastic. Spontaneous combustion? No. Water had got into the motor and somehow the lift had caught fire (Opinion of local and not of forensic expert). Anyway, something for the residents to talk about for months.

But where were Little One and Wifey? I dashed into the building to save them, pulling my underpants onto the outside of my sodden trousers. The firemen stopped me. Dangerous. Structural damage. The mobile rang. Wifey. They were on their way from the supermarket. Get the kettle on. No superhero stuff for me. Must be my day off.

So, seven flights of steps to get home. Lungs filled up with vapours from burning electrical cables.

********************

"Mierda!" Monica swears again. Her ceiling must be leaking.