Time: 5.40pm. Location: 4th floor of Greater London House, London NW1. Me and a young lady waiting for a lift. Sometimes a couple of the 6 lifts don't “ping” to announce their arrival. I noticed there was actually a lift already there. Doors closing. I sprinted deftly towards it to facilitate entry for me and my fellow waitee. Put my hands out. And the f*cking thing closed, on my hands.

So by now, I'm shouting “f*ck, f*ck”. The woman behind me thinks I'm an impatient moron who is just annoyed that he isn't going to leave the building as soon as he had previously thought. Further shouts of “agh, agh, my f*cking fingers” convince her otherwise. The lemons inside the lift think they're being attacked by a slightly overweight web designer and don't press the “open doors” button. I cannot remove my f*cking hands from this door. Eventually, after about 15 seconds (a long time in the world of finger crushing) with brute force I manage somehow to get them out.

THEN the doors open, and some twonk from inside meekly asks “are you OK?” I'm wringing my hands and turning the air purple. Same twonk says to the woman waiting for the lift “Do you want to get in?” “No, not now”, she replies. As if I had made the lift unusable by my soft, never-done-a-hard-days-work hands being mercilessly flattened.

Anyway, both hands are bruised to f*ck and my fingers all big and sausagey. Not ideal for 4 hours of playing bass in a rehearsal room, which is what I subsequently had to do. I sat down for 10 minutes, feeling quite shaky, musing on how awful that could have been. Typical me, worrying about possible outcomes rather than actual ones. What if all my fingers had amalgamated into one big broken boney mass? I would no longer be able to rub the fat into the flour on, uh, Pastry Day.

*

Amusing outcome to the selling of the Palm organisers on eBay fiasco (LJ passim)… Both mine and 's went for 85 quid. I made the exchange of Palm for cash outside Mornington Crescent tube at about 12.30pm with a red trouser'd woman calle Ysabel. But didn't. No. Because he accidentally won his own auction after trying to artificially push the price up. I believe that's called something like Insider Dealing. It should be punishable by 2 weeks washing up duty; embarrasingly he does all the washing up already. So I'll have to think of something else. Maybe I'll give him back that It Bites CD.

Too much work to do. I'm going to have to take my laptop to Liverpool tomorrow en route to the Sally Crewe gig. Which is a pain, as all evening will be spent worrying about it being stolen, dropped or impaled on a big spike.