Published The Advocate, October 9, 2004


VERY few newcomers expect to be formally welcomed by the mayor on their first day in town; even fewer wish to be greeted by the fire brigade.

The mayor would have been sufficient.

Moving into a house on the hill, I spent the first day unpacking until wrapping paper was piled high in the kitchen, the lounge room and halfway up the walls in the hallway.

The removalist never tells you there will be hundreds of sheets of paper to dispose of afterwards.

I was still waiting for the power to be connected and there was no gas yet for heating. So, putting one and two together, I decided to light the open fire to provide some warmth, a little light and to get rid of the paper.

Pulling a footstool close to the fire, I sat munching dry bread crusts and balling up the paper, throwing them one by one onto the fire. At this rate it was going to take all night.

I threw in two sheets at a time. Then another couple, then three, and the heat was so great I had to sit back. Even so, little impression was being made on the paper mountain.

The fire by now had developed a satisfying roar and I had to sit back further again. I kept piling on the paper. The roar grew steadily louder, much louder in fact than the size of the fire was likely to produce.

Paper fireballs were whooshing up the chimney, which had begun to snap and crackle in a worrying way.

The roar, by now sounding like a low-flying aircraft, seemed to be coming from inside the chimney. Now that can’t be good.

I went outside for a look and the chimney was spewing sparks like a Roman candle in the night, as if under a Harry Potter spell, and the glowing cinders were floating downhill onto the neighbour’s roof.

Great, my first night and I was going to burn down the town.

For the first time in my life I dialed 000, then stood on the balcony to watch the fire unit leave its base in the town below and hear the siren coming uphill, all for me.

The fireys under Officer Gerard McCarthy put out the fire with half a saucepan of water and then removed the smouldering embers in a tin can, which filled the lounge room with smoke.

Officer McCarthy peered up the chimney with a torch, said he had seen worse, and declared it safe. He said the chimney had not been cleaned in a long while and the accumulated creosote had caught alight, that was all.

He suggested it would be better to stuff the wrapping paper into plastic bags and leave them out for recycling. I made a mental note to buy 2000 Garbags.

“You can light your fire again, no problems,” Officer McCarthy said.

“No,” I said, “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

A list of my 100 greatest faux pas is currently attracting international publishing interest.