The letters were scrawled under the lift's metal panel.

Tiny black words.

I had to squint to make them out.

Press minus three three times to unlock the hidden floor.

I snorted.

The lift in my block of flats isn't exactly short of graffiti,

but for the most part it isn't worth a second look.

Swear words, phone numbers, bulbous, badly drawn dicks, the kind of stuff bored teenagers scratch onto any available service to amuse themselves.

At least this new edition was original.

I set down my two rubbish bags and pressed minus one, hesitated with my finger hovering over the button.

I don't know if I did what I did next in tribute to the graffiti's mystery author or simply because I'd had a few post-work beers and felt

the urge.

Whatever the reason, I barely gave it any thought at all.

I pushed the button twice more. It might have been the worst

mistake I've ever made. The lift juddered into life.

I flicked my gaze up to the digital display above the sliding metal doors, watching the numbers

count down from 7, 6, 5, 4. I've always hated taking the bins out. Yes, I know,

nobody enjoys doing it.

Like cleaning or washing up, it's one of those chores that's pretty hard to get excited

by.

But something about the block of that I live in makes the job even worse.

It's not like being in a house where you can wander down the garden and pop your rubbish outside

...