Me, in my old ratty pjs, running up the street peering in my neighbours windows at 3am. Not a great image, eh?
I have this teeny tiny phobia about fire. And moths, I hate moths. My eldest tells me that I must have died in a fire in a previous life, probably tied to a stake (probably at night, with the moths attracted to the flames... hah take that Freud!). I think it far more likely that my phobia springs from my father accidentally setting the house alight when I was a toddler, but whatever floats your boat.
So, asleep in bed. 3am. I get a whiff.. a tiny sniff.. oh my god, a fire! I am so much better than any smoke alarm, and I am out of bed, running into the children’s rooms before my brain catches up. Wait, I can smell fire but there’s no smoke. And my smoke alarms, so sensitive they pingpingpingpingping if a spider crosses the ceiling, are quiet. Hmm. Not my house then. (I still check every single room and electric socket).
So… it must be a neighbours house! I run into the street and check the windows for flickering light. Because you know that is obviously how I’d know. Tcch.
Himself finally catches up with me. He leans out the front door. “For pity’s sake, it’s the bloody tyre yard across town, the wind must have changed!”
I scurry quickly back into the house, and sheepishly slope back to bed (although with that adrenaline rush the chances of sleep are now nil). I may be a total idiot but secretly I am still impressed at my super sensitive sense of smell. Me 1: Fire 0.