My Samsung-default ringtone shattered the full moon silence of Sunday night.
I jolted upright in bed, knocking over a half-cup of thickened milk as I scrambled to make the shrill sound stop.
“Hello, yes?” I mumbled, rubbing crusts of sleep from my half-shut eyes.
“There’s a house burning in Eagle Street in Reyno Ridge,” the calm, purposeful voice of our assistant editor rang.
“I’m on my way,” I mumbled, swinging my legs (and all of the covers) onto the ground in one swift motion.
‘I thought she was in Cape Town,’ I thought to myself as I kicked on pumps and pulled a jumper over my head, ‘I guess not.’
If my car could protest; it would have. It spluttered to life, choking into existence purely because of my determination for it to do so.
‘Sorry old guy,’ I thought, ‘but we have miles to go before we sleep.’
I turned into Eagle Street.
The first thing I noticed was the lack of smoke.
‘A smokeless fire?’ I shrugged as I exited my car and stumbled into the hodge-podge crowd that had gathered in front of one of the houses.
“What’s happening?” I asked the first uniformed responder I could find.
“I’m not sure. I just got here,” he jovially smiled, “but from the sounds of it, there is no fire – just some guys who threw a tyre onto a small fire somewhere on the premises.”
Further investigation found that this had indeed been the case – concerned neighbours having called out neighbourhood watch groups after hearing the clacking fire emanating from just behind their boundary wall.
As I returned to the warm embrace of my waiting car (and its wondrous heater), I thought; ‘What a way to start the new week – with a not-burning, burning house.’
