Fire in the Disco

Well, fire in my house anyway… Allow me to set the scene:

’twas a dark and stormy night, the chill mountain winds shrieking and clawing at the age stained stone of my home. I lay warm inside upon my sofa, a warm throw of fleece covering my aching legs, and the warm light of the television bathing me with it’s comforting light. My the hand on my clock slowly crawled through the hours until, with no noticeable strain, nine o’ clock was reached. Hunger pulled at my insides like a ravenous beast and so, raising from my warm repose, I made my way to the oven, into which I placed two vegetable bakes and a handfull of chips. I then made my way back to the sofa.

At 1:30am I was awoken by the wailing of my smoke alarm and by the strangling tendrils of smoke clambering across the walls to reach my sofa. The television had gone silent and the …… anyway, dramatic prose aside, I nodded off with an oven full of food on the go. This morning I smell of fire and brimstone, and I have doused everything I own in lilac air freshener! In the middle ages I’d be accused of being a witch ("Smelled of the very fires of hell, so he did squire!").

Yes I am an eejit.

My eejititude is made to look worse by the fact I have been the head cook at work all week and have been endlessly praised for the high quality of the fair that I have been producing! Huzzah!

Oh well, that’s about all I have to relate really, as I’m rather tired and smokey.

May flights of angels wing thee to thy rest.

Tom.