If the day had started with a decent cup of coffee she wouldn’t have been stuck in the lift. She felt certain of that. The lift was the inevitable result of a catalogue of tiny disasters. It had only started with burnt coffee. It had not ended there. The fetus behind the Starbucks counter had scorched all the taste out of the beans and the milk. The forecast neglected to mention rain. The cab driver insisted on a route through every section of roadworks in London. The receptionist of the building couldn’t find her name at first. Then he’s put her in a lift that decided to grind to a halt between the 11th and 12th floors.
The interview was probably over by now. They’d probably decided that she was the worst human being on the planet. How dare she apply and then not show up. Didn’t she know how busy they were?! Didn’t she want the career in journalism her CV had claimed she did.
This was her life. It was a disaster.