The chamber of horrors

My preferred route in a shopping centre is to ride the lift to the uppermost shopping floor and work my way down by stairs and escalators. Makes sense: I don't have to cover the same grounds twice.

One of my favourite shopping haunts is Far East Plaza on Scotts for fun, quirky and inexpensive clothes and accessories.

But.

Step into the bubble lift of that building, and you enter a chamber of horrors:

- it is tiny; if there are 6 people in there, you feel hemmed in.
- it gets the full sun all day; it always feels like you are walking into a oven that has been set on slow bake mode at 50 degrees C.
- it rides slow; you suffer the crowding and the baking for longer than necessary.
- then, the mother of all horrors: I catch the awfullest reflection in the mirrored panels. Sickly yellow complexion, caked makeup running into every line on my face, hair colour a nasty orange shade of straw, and by the way, is that really the colour of my eye shadow? Even that go-anywhere wear-anytime ensemble of black tank top and gypsy skirt looks like rejects from the salvation army.

By the time I walk out of the chamber of horrors, my ego is deflated like a punctured tyre and my confidence is like shattered glass pieces on the floor deserving to be swept away post haste.

It takes walking around the shops, making a conscious effort to breath deeply and slowly, realising that nobody is scrambling to get away, and babies are not crying at the sight of me that I finally regain my equanimity.

I hate horror chambers that double up as elevators in shopping centres.