Dotty

A year or two after my life of impoverished independence (but what larks I had!) the lovely Mr Dotty stepped over my threshold, made an honest woman of me and whisked me off to our new home: a beautiful cottage in a sleepy lane in a pretty Wiltshire village.

We lived a happy, happy life… working hard during the week and supporting the local liquid refreshment economy at the weekend. Our first Christmas was to be a special one – nothing would be too much trouble. We had my lovely s-i-l and her Very Chocolatey Husband coming back over from Namibia with their darling little boy, and we wanted them to have an English Christmas like no other.

So… inbetween working, getting sloshed and nursing hangovers, I beavered away making the Christmas Pudding, Cake, Preserved Pears (Delia said I had to), home-made Mincemeat, etc, etc. I bundled cinnamon sticks and tied them with pretty ribbon, dried orange slices, studded oranges with a thousand cloves… and I made the most beautiful Holly Wreath – all by myself. This final touch of rural domestic yuletide perfection was one too much for the universe to bear…

The day came (for me it is Boxing Day, but I waited on this occasion until our lovely visitors had left) when the Christmas glitter and gaud had to be cleared away. Everything went well until I remembered that the Holly Wreath was still hanging on the door waiting to attack anyone daring to knock  (but more specifically the postman). No problem, thought I… I considered the compost heap, but decided that it would take too long to rot down and I didn’t fancy being attacked by the Zombie Holly Wreath come Spring, so the next best solution: the FIRE!

How merrily it burned! So merrily I had to prevent it from flying up the chimney by holding it down with the poker. Mr Dotty popped his head round the door.. ‘Everything all right, darling?’. ‘Oh, YES’, I replied anxious to get him back on the other side of the door, now holding onto the poker with both hands and considering using my foot. Then the doorbell rang. It was our neighbour: ‘Do you know that your chimney is on fire?’. ‘Why no’ said Mr Dotty ‘Is it?’. ‘Well’ said neighbour ‘I presume that’s what the 10 foot high flames mean’.

I waited with knees together (I don’t know why they do that when I am nervous, but they do) hoping against hope that the fire would subside in the next 30 seconds. It didn’t. ‘Should I call the Fire Brigade?’ I asked rather sheepishly…

999… FireBrigade… Chimney Fire, Cottage, Little Lane, Pretty Village… Is it Thatched?… Oh NO… Thank Goodness, we’ll be over in a minute…Oh, NO!!! Wait!!… Yes… Next door’s is thatched, and opposite is thatched, and next door down is thatched… Oh NO! We are RIGHT there…

Nee naw, nee naw, nee naw… Blue Lights flash, flash, flash… Neighbours running…. Firemen… Oh My LORD Firemen… Uniform… Hoses… In the house… How many chimneys?… Errrrrr…. Firemen…Uniform… Hoses…. Chimneys? How many?…. Errr…Firemen, Uniform, Hoses… Right: YOU: KITCHEN, TEA, NOW.  So, so masterful…

Ohhhhhh…. Firemen, Uniform, Hoses… why did I not know of this when I was single?

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

I was brought up with a healthy respect for fire. I grew up in the depths of North Coldshire where the only source of heating came from the sitting room fire, coal was carried in from the outhouse from 1st October until 30th April (no matter how cold it was either side of those months) and by the age of 5 I could clean out and lay a fire as skilfully as the next chap. I withstood a thrashing at the age of 10 having been caught with matches in my coat pocket: so ingrained were the perils of playing with fire, I chose to be punished for smoking cigarettes rather than for my true crime: lighting a fire in my tree den. It was a tear-streaked face which promised never again to touch a filthy ciggy, while all the time looking forward to toasting barley in my carefully hidden empty battered baccy tin.
Time marched on and I found myself alone in a world of double glazing, central heating and even a tumble drier. What luxury thought I, still remembering the green metal hot water bottle, the eiderdowns so heavy you thought your ribs would break and the thick slabs of ice over the windows in the morning (how we laughed at the thought of Jack Frost leaving his delicate patterns!). One Friday evening, in a state of new-found independence, at the tender age of 23, I left my darling little flat and went off on a jolly, to return on the Sunday evening. I walked into the communal hall, smelled an odd, yet strangely comforting smell, and proceeded to open my door. The odd thing was that even in the hall I hadn’t registered that a smoke alarm was squealing, still less that it was my smoke alarm.
The flat was not large (my mother commented on first seeing it that the hall was rather small: she was looking at the sitting room), so it didn’t take too long to discover the cause of the smoke. My bed was pushed up against the storage heater – there was nowhere else for it to go (great design…), but as the little air vents at the top were still reasonable uncovered, I thought no more of it. However… at some point during the weekend the storage heater pixies had got in and done their dirty work. The storage heater had overheated and in overheating had melted its own controls to a fixed ‘furnace blast’ position. The mattress was charring and melting away quite happily, the duvet had caught fire and the feathers glowed red and flickered. I disconnected the fire alarm (it would NOT shut up), threw a pan or two of water over the bed, put the duvet outside, sat in my sitting room and cried. Now, the other problem that I had was that I was proud. I was so proud it hurts me to think of it now. I was also quite poor. The price of my independence was 1 full-time job and 2 part-time jobs, working 7 days a week: and that enabled me to have my flat and run my little white Mini. It did not afford me storage space, spare bedding, etc, etc. Pride stopped me from ringing a friend and asking to stay the night, or from borrowing a sleeping bag… and so I was left in my quite-small-for-a-hall sitting room on two cushions from the armchairs as a mattress and the curtain from the window as a blanket, feeling more than a little sorry for myself.
Of course – if I had known then what I know now (but then Wee1 and Wee2 might never have been…) I would have: called the FIRE BRIGADE! (see part 2).

Bookmark It

Hide Sites