The Fire Brigade.

Four years ago, the bulb in my bathroom pendant ceiling light exploded.

Today, my tool toting, utility belt wearing pal came to my house, big yellow ladder in hand (over shoulder) and replaced the duffed light fitting.  It took around 15 minutes.  4 years and 15 minutes.

Tonight I will bathe.  After dark.

One dark night, about two years ago, I lit some candles and hopped in the bath. As I happily warbled along to Bright Eyes and sculpted funny hairdos/big boobs with my bubble bath bubbles, my relaxing fun time was interrupted by the sound of sirens. Lots of sirens. Then someone rang my door bell.  Irritated by the noisy, buzzy, eee-aw hullabaloo that was drowning out my rendition of Lua, I was pleased Garry was at home to deal with the surprise visitor/Jehovah’s Witness at the door.  As the sirens continued to make intermittent ‘waaaow’ noises, I could hear Garry chat to someone over the intercom. He burst into the bathroom, the door clattering off the wall. I got a fright. “The fire brigade are outside! And they’re here to rescue YOU!” he shouted. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. As it transpired, a concerned and cautious neighbour spotted my candles flickering behind the frost of the bathroom window and thought our flat was on fire. Imagine. Had Garry NOT been home, I would have ignored the buzzer presser and continued with my karaoke bath time routine.  Imagine. Had I not answered the door, there’s every chance a troupe of burly fire fighters would have burst into my hall and right on through to my bathroom only to find me with a frothy white quiff, carefully moulded 38GG bubble breasts, singing sad, sad songs in a fake American accent.

Wow.