A long lunch…

I don't normally take the lift. Not since we moved from the panoramic heights of the 14th floor to the lowly fourth floor of our office block, where we have twice as much space and half as much light. But after nipping out to buy a sandwich a few Fridays ago, I got into the lift to head up to our eating area on the sixth. The doors closed, we started our ascent. Up, up and then… a lurch large enough to make me step forward, followed by an abrupt halt, final enough to make me swear.

This was my nightmare. Trapped. Seven years without getting stuck in those lifts. It had to happen one day, especially given the regularity with which they break. But, reassured the disembodied voice over the alarm intercom, someone would be with us soon. We had an air supply (hooray), we should stay calm and on no account should we try to open the doors.

Of course, worse things happen at sea. And once the initial shock of it had worn off, it didn't seem so bad. There was the comically awkward moment where we – five strangers, despite working in the same building – realised that we were going to have to talk to each other, and not play the game of silence normal in Bristol lifts and the London Tube. Because it turns out that a quiet group of people in a space narrower and shallower than it is tall is more disconcerting than working out what to chat about in a stuck-lift situation.

And enforced small talk is a refined art. Discussion of the building's flaws (the window pane that recently fell out on to the street below, the cup of coffee that caused health-and-safety alarm in a fire drill) seemed to fit in with the theme of the afternoon; informing the group that last time it had only taken ten minutes to solve the lift problem was generally welcomed. Mentioning films featuring lifts – Die Hard, The Silence of the Lambs, Terminator 2 – not so much. Wondering if the alarm bell that started ringing was a fire alarm? Total faux pas.

We were stuck in that humid, small metal tin for 70 minutes. At that point the lift company was giving us estimates of anything up to an hour for the engineer to arrive: he was caught in traffic. But someone outside forced open the doors on the floor above, we prised the lift doors apart from inside and scrambled up to fresh air, freedom and, oddly, the flood of fear that had been held back. Time for a cup of tea and that tuna sandwich. And, yes, from now I will be taking the stairs.