Lying snuggled up to Roast on his bed the other night, sated with leek and potato soup and crusty bread, we began to smell burning. Hmm. I just assumed it was the scent of our hot hot hot looks burning through the sheets, but sensible/anxiety disordered Roast was a bit more paranoid. Can't we just carry on watching our programme? NO. We need to check what it is.
Pouting, I was disturbed then anyway by a siren cutting through the restarted episode of 30 Rock.
Quickly as possible, though careful not to disturb the windowsill groaning with trinkets that every self respecting member of our group is familiar with, we wriggled up and out of the window. Ooh, look! A fire engine with a bevvy of firefighters in nice wet look onesies. Sashy should SO stud those.
They unravelled their flat hoses and snaked them down the street. Funny, Roast and I had always assumed that they kept the water in the engine! But no, they were cranking open the fire hose covers on every street to get to the water mains. Funnier, I always thought that the FH metal covers stood for Frances Harkness. What fire hose?
We got a bit bored once Roast had had an ironic cigarette, and went back to watching 30 Rock with some melting chocolate pudding.
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