Some like it hot. Others like it really hot. Yet how many of us are happy when it’s actually on fire? And what the shit am I talking about? To find out click here – or the puppy gets it.
A couple of weeks ago I rose early. This is noteworthy because:
a) this is rare for me
(though as an increasing number of people like to point out, the slothful image I portray on this website is to a certain extent a fallacy as I still have to earn a living and in fact, most of the time, work fecking hard)
b) had I not done Heaven Knows What Would Have Happened
I rose at 6.45 and showered. Having dried my body all over with a towel, I placed clothes over my naked skin and ventured out of the my bedroom. As I did so the front door shut. My tenant and her boyfriend had left for the day and I’d just missed them. And so began my daily commute to work: down the corridor past the bathroom where just minutes before I’d been washing my bottom, sharp right at the picture of the woman dancing with a skeleton, left again, past the kitchen where I do me cookin’, and into the sitting room. It’s not ideal working in the sitting room. It does tend to mean that I find it hard to switch off. I should probably put my laptop away in the evening. But I don’t. And I can’t.
So I walk into the room and I’m surprised by what I see: my balcony frame is on fire. Actually on fire. With flames flitting skyward. “Oh”, I said to myself. “That’s definitely unusual. Normally it’s not even slightly on fire.” I opened the door onto the balcony, saw it wasn’t a mirage, filled a big saucepan and doused the flames. Then I had a glass of OJ, which is ironic considering he starred in The Towering Inferno.
One of two things had happened. Either my flatmate’s boyfriend had had a cigarette on said balcony and not put it out properly, or the dried-out wooden frame had somehow self-combusted in the heat.
I emailed both my flatmate and the sun. My flatmate replied. It was her boyfriend wot dunnit. Guilty!
I was exceptionally lucky. How many times do I get up when my flatmate does? Rarely. Had I remained in bed for a further thirty minutes things could have become rather tricksville. The wooden balcony frame is dried out and highly flammable. The frame connects to the flat itself, with dried out ivy and framey shit on the walls. There are houses either side and flats above and below. Anything could have happened. I could have woken up with melted legs.
I’d told her boyfriend not to smoke on the balcony before since it made the flat stink of cigs. He’s a good lad actually, but had decided to sneak a quick fag before they set off, didn’t stub it out properly on the wooden frame, left an iota of smouldering tobacco, and the rest could have been history. So I shot him. No, I didn’t. I was just glad nothing more serious happened. I just beat the crap out of him.
Welcome to Part Two Of This Blog
Last week I was best man at my friend Riaz’s wedding. I must say it’s a real pleasure to play BM to someone one is fond of. And I’m extremely fond of Razzle. Even though he’s too good looking. That’s right, he’s much too good looking. I don’t like it. In fact I hate it. In fact the thrust of my speech was that when we were at university together I resented the fact that when we operated in a pair I’d always end up with the one with the limp.
Anyroadup, there’s little more to say. Instead here are a few photos from the occasion:
Riaz and his Russian bride, Natasha
Me and fellow uni chum Thin Greg
Razzle and I being papped
(whilst, it appears, standing on the wall. No matter how hard I try, I just cannot seem to save this photo the right way round. Oh the trials of the being an idiot).
That’s eet for now. Stay safe – and don’t have nightmares.