No Dancing in the Lift: A Memoir by Mandy Sayer
Published by Transit Lounge, 2025
An edited extract:
Mandy Sayer on the enduring legacy of her
father’s humour
Dad was forever joking, even in the most inappropriate settings. Once, on the way to radiotherapy, he leaned heavily against the lift’s handrail, winked at me and announced to the baffled strangers inside: “No dancing in the lift!” Then, to their horror, he started a shaky soft-shoe shuffle across the carpet until the doors opened and we spilled into the corridor, both of us laughing so hard we almost forgot why we were there. That was his way: to turn hospitals into vaudeville stages, and pain into a punchline.
Another time, after the oncologist delivered a long list of what not to eat—sugar, salt, alcohol, dairy—Dad pursed his lips and said: “So basically, air then?” The doctor, unamused, moved on, but I couldn’t stop snorting into my sleeve. That night at home he opened the fridge, surveyed the contents with mock seriousness, and declared: “Contraband central.” Then he reached for the cheddar, sliced off a wedge and said: “Come on, kid, let’s live dangerously.”
He delighted in making a spectacle of himself. If the toaster jammed, he’d slap it on the side and call out in his best Laurel and Hardy voice: “Well, we’ve done it again, Ollie!” If the postman was late, he’d stage a whole interrogation at the front gate, demanding the missing letters as if they were state secrets. Once, when Mum told him off for leaving the teabags dripping across the benchtop, he saluted and barked: “Yes, ma’am! Court-martial offence, ma’am!” before marching stiffly out of the kitchen, whistling a military tune.
His favourite performance, though, was the obituary routine. After one particularly grim appointment he came home, grabbed a biro and announced he was going to draft his own death notice. “Why leave it to the amateurs?” he said. Then he scribbled and read aloud: “Gerard Sayer: accomplished trumpeter, occasional raconteur, serial fibber. Known for falling asleep in cinema matinees and heckling bingo callers. Survived by three unpaid parking fines and a fridge full of cheese. Will be sadly missed by the bar staff at the Marrickville RSL.” Mum rolled her eyes but I howled. “You can’t print that!” I said. “Why not?” he replied. “It’s all true.”
Even when his hands trembled too much to write, he dictated lines for me to add: “Tell them I was Australia’s worst dancer. No one ever accused me of rhythm.” Then he shuffled into the lounge, pulled an imaginary microphone from the air and crooned off-key: “I did it… sideways!” collapsing onto the sofa in mock exhaustion. Mum threw a cushion at him and muttered, “Idiot.” But her smile gave her away.
He kept on with the gags long after most people would have given in to despair. One evening, struggling to keep his trousers up, he muttered: “See this? Gravity wants me!” Then he mimed being sucked down through the floorboards, yelping like a cartoon character until both of us were doubled over. Another time, after losing his voice to the treatment, he scrawled on a notepad: “Now I’m silent as well as brilliant.” When I teased him about vanity, he winked and wrote: “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
Even when exhaustion silenced him, he couldn’t resist one last punchline. He’d lie back on the couch, eyes half-closed, then open one and rumble: “You know what the secret to immortality is?” I’d play along. “What?” He’d grin: “Don’t die.” Every time he delivered that line as though it were the greatest wisdom in the world. And maybe it was.
Edited extract from No Dancing in the Lift (Transit Lounge $32.99), the new memoir from Mandy Sayer. Now available at all good bookshops and online at https://transitlounge.com.au/shop/no-dancing-in-the-lift/
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