Holy Smoke... Well not exactly holy, unless you go with popular opinion that my street is the Gateway to Hell. There I was, shining my writing medal due to completing the first draft of a short story - Of Metal Towers and Postcard Wings - and about to knuckle down and get some work done on Theatre when it began to rain ash outside my window.
A good first thought would have been, "Ooh, time to write a volcano inspired story.'
Or maybe, "God's taken up the evil weed and is flicking ash in my garden."
Real thought, "The washing is on the line."
Neighbours being neighbours, I heard cries of 'the entire railway is on fire' and 'that tree has caught light' and saw a procession of kids heading up towards the smoke and flames. Scary! Actually, double scary. Having mown the lawn earlier and getting dead grass in my hair (and the house), I'd just washed my hair and now it's full of ash (slight exaggeration there), as is the hallway. Someone forgot to shut the door when she went to have a nosy at the commotion. That someone would be me.
Cough! Cough! Lungs full of ash. I really should take my own advice and keep my mouth shut. :D
Side note: While I may not survive the zombie apocalypse, I'm almost certain my flash drives, Olive Lemon and photos of the children will. I packed them all ready to go in case the firemen insisted we get out of the house.