The complex's architect had had the bright idea of building a lift made entirely of glass. He obviously didn't have a fear of heights because he'd put the lift on the outside of the building. The waves were crashing twenty stories below my feet and I imagined a scene from �The Towering Inferno� - if the lift suddenly broke off from its mountings I'd plummet like a stone to the rocks below.
My latest internet contact hadn't warned me of the perilous lift. Fortunately my lift torture was brief. On the 21st floor the doors opened and I slowly edged my way out of the glass box. I walked, with a wobble, along the luxuriously appointed corridor. Down-lights lit the passageway and a lovely spray of flowers stood in the middle of the corridor.
Finding the apartment I knocked on the door. It opened and I looked ahead, but couldn't see anything. Then I looked down. From my height of six foot three I saw a small man, about five foot, who was standing quite far below me. At first I didn't know what to do. On the internet, this same small man at my feet hadn't said he was short. Neither had he said, as I looked at his white hair, that he was old enough to be my grandfather! The man standing below me was so short he would need a stool to reach my height and as for being in his thirties, sixty would have been more accurate. As if this wasn't bad enough he was wearing a red kimono with a gold dragon on it.
My voice almost squeaked, "Kevin?"
"Come in, come in," he said with a big smile.
On the internet, this same small man at my feet hadn't said he was short. Neither had he said, as I looked at his white hair, that he was old enough to be my grandfather!
Rather than entering this small man's home I felt like turning and marching back to the lift. But I didn't like the idea of returning to that nightmarish fun-ride that masqueraded as a lift just yet. And I knew that my politically correct, separatist, feminist friends would tell me that I was horizontally and chronologically challenged if I ran out now. I would just have to wait for the appropriate moment to make my get-a-way.
Reluctantly, I stepped through the door. He led me through a pure white hallway which ended in an elegant living room that could easily have appeared on the front cover of any Architectural Digest.
"Take a seat," he said, pointing to one of two velvet couches that were located in the centre of the room.
"What can I get you to drink?"
"Coffee, please." I looked down at the carpet which was red with a gold pattern.
"Would you like instant or ground?"
I looked up. "I only drink ground."
"Ah, a man of taste and refinement." He said with a pleased expression before walking off to the kitchen
As I sat down I noticed that, even at almost ground level, this short man still seemed worryingly short. On the internet, this same small man at my feet hadn't said he was short. Neither had he said, as I looked at his white hair, that he was old enough to be my grandfather!
A moment later I heard the sound of a machine grinding beans. This was followed by the pleasant aroma of fresh coffee. I tried to relax back into his couch but it was difficult considering the awkward situation and the fact that the couch felt more like an object designed to look at rather than feel comfortable in.
Scanning the room, I realised that, apart from an all-white interior, and lots of gold-framed photos on the walls, the predominant colour appeared to be red - it was everywhere. Thick red curtains with gold borders draped dramatically around a large picture window, which commanded views as spectacular as the lift's. The furniture was in a red-type of wood and red and cream cushions decorated the couch. Red was the colour of passion. But I didn't consider, at the time, that it was also the colour of danger.
