837 Steps and Two Dodgy Knees - Not Exactly a Stairway to Heaven

I’ll be 70 on my next birthday and I’m beginning to feel my age thanks to a short, balding man with a Napoleon complex and the bunch of psychopaths he rules from Moscow.

I’m pretty fit for my age, if I do say so myself. But a lifetime of sport: soccer, rugby, basketball and especially running have taken their toll on my feet, ankles and knees – as two operations in the past three years attest.

If I knew seven years ago what I know now, I would never have bought my retirement home on the 19th floor although I should at least be grateful my wife an I didn’t opt for the one on the 32nd.

Now because of Putin’s war, particularly the attacks his forces make on Ukraine’s energy sector, I am frequently unable to use the high-speed lifts - that make the journey down to or up from the lobby in nine seconds - when the power drops out. Instead, I have to use the 837 steps of the emergency staircase that runs down the spine of the building often two or more times a day. That takes me considerably longer – 13 minutes down and 17 minutes up - on a good day.

Still, I’m a greater believer in using my time wisely, or at least as wisely as I can.

If I make the journey with my young son, we use the time to recite the numbers of each floor in English, Ukrainian, French, German and even occasionally Russian or sing counting songs. It helps pass the time and distracts from the screams of protest that come from behind my poor, battered patellae (kneecaps). Every cloud has a silver lining – Dan’s counting and his ability to carry a tune are coming along nicely.

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If I’m alone I have to think up alternative ways of distracting myself. The counting strategy doesn’t work so well – I know the numbers in those five languages – well more or less. I’ve tried singing to myself but, especially when I’m going up, I begin to get breathless after three or four flights. Queen, Metallica and Led Zeppelin aren’t quite the same when the song is only in your head and passers-by look at a man of my age singing “Don’t Stop Me Now” with a mixture of amusement, horror or sympathy.

Depending on the time of day I am likely to encounter others banished to the darkness of the stairs. I forgot to mention of course that if the electricity is off the stairs are in darkness. I have a cheeky little LED flashlight that I use to guide my way, but most of those I meet use their iPhones to illuminate the stairs.

In the blackness of the stairwell, you can see the approaching beams of light a couple of floors away. I play a little game in my head trying to guess from the sound and speed of advance both going up and down who I’m about to meet. Male or female? Young or old? Alone or with someone else? Occasionally I get a hint – the clip-clop of high heels (how can you climb stairs in 9-inch heels?) a whiff of strong perfume (or occasionally the unmistakable aroma of sweaty armpits), the depth and rate of breathlessness and whether or not they stop for a breather. After a year or more I’m getting quite good at identifying the category of person I’m about to encounter.

Of course, there are a number of regulars who I meet up with in passing as we toil up and down, most of whom I never see anywhere else or for longer than the three or four seconds that we interact with each other on the stairs.

There is Olivia (that may not be her name but that’s what I call her in my head). She is what novels would describe as “handsome.” She’s around the same height as me, 190 centimeters (6ft 2 ins) and built like a shot putter. She always puts me in mind of those East German athletes of the 1970s. She always smiles and says hello as I step back to let her pass – not out of fear but because of the British politeness instilled in me from an early age by my mother.

Then there is Kostya (again a pseudonym) who I think is a bodyguard for one of the politicians that live in the building. He’s obviously into body building and has biceps larger than my thighs. His arms are covered in tattoos which I’m sure tell a story and I’d like to see in the daylight one of these days. He always seems tense as he approaches someone on the stairs and grips his little shoulder bag – which probably contains a gun -  but relaxes once he recognizes you. I always step aside for him, not out of politeness but residual fear.

One of my favorite “companions” is Larysa (made up name) for the reason that she is everything I find confusing in a modern woman. She is probably in her late twenties or early thirties and has undergone several “modifications.” She possesses the most outlandish set of “fish lips” courtesy of some form of lip plumper, a nose that has been straightened and bobbed, cheeks that have been similarly enhanced, a figure that owes more to the surgeon’s knife and silicon than nature and hair blonder than that of a Targeryan (Game of Thrones reference).

She always wears the shortest skirts, that just about stay on the right side of decency and that have led me to avert my eyes on the couple of occasions that I have followed her up the stairs. A couple of months back, however, two young men were on the stairs behind her and were shining their torches on her behind. After a few seconds of this she stopped, reached into her handbag and, with a flourish, produced her police identity card and sweetly told them what I presume was the Ukrainian equivalent of “cut it out or I’ll run you in.” A reminder, if I ever needed it to never to judge a book by its cover.

Anyway, the power’s just gone off and I need to collect the kids from school so I’m off for my daily constitutional – wonder who, if anyone, I’ll meet today. Come on knees – let’s go.