BLUE POOTLE – APRIL 2007

By Aliya Whiteley

On Fire

No, the Blue Pootle is not actually on fire at this moment in time - metaphorically or otherwise - but I would like to relate the strange relationship I have had since birth with that hottest and orangiest of elements.

I was born, in 1974, in a fire truck.

At the age of four I was given a fire engine red dressing gown with ladybird buttons. I sat too close to my gran's open fire and melted all the buttons. I wasn't half distraught at the time, particularly when it had to be cut off me. Sob.

At age fifteen I was a competitor in a character dancing competition. No, that doesn't mean dressing up like Donald Duck and doing the twist. I had studied Hungarian dancing - basically, it's ballet dancing with a skirt and a hankie. Anyway, I had chosen to perform The Candle Dance. I had my candle, I had my skirt, I had my hankie. Then, two minutes before going on stage, I was told the candle had to be lit. It had never occurred to me that I was meant to dance with hot wax spilling over my hand whilst waving my hankie madly over a naked flame. I refused. I lost the competition. Go figure.

At age twenty-two I attended a bonfire night celebration that my uncle had organised. He was in charge of fireworks and the display was wonderful. We were all very impressed with him. Then he threw the apparently empty firework boxes into the bonfire. Cue explosion from not quite empty box into the crowd. I've never seen people scatter so fast - the police should try it for rowdy crowd events. Nobody injured, some people scared, everyone, unsurprisingly, much less impressed with my uncle.

At age twenty-five I decided to take more interest in keeping fit. I got back into exercising and tried to eat healthily. I bought some sunflower seeds and discovered they were delicious - Hubby informed me they were even better toasted, so I stuck some under the grill. And wandered off. And forgot all about them. Twenty minutes later, a strange smell led me to wander back into the kitchen. Oh. Greasy black smoke everywhere. I opened the oven door and was greeted by a sheet of flame that pretty much looked like my worst nightmare. Luckily, Hubby was still in the house. He rushed in and told me to go and open a window while he dealt with the crisis. Ten minutes after giving that instruction, he wandered into the living room to tell me that the fire had been put out. I was still staring at the window. Under the pressure of the situation (or heat of the moment, one might say), I had forgotten how to open it. It's fair to say I'm not good in a crisis.

So there you go. Things have improved since the age of twenty-five. I can now light a match and operate a hand held lighter. Barbecuing and bonfires still terrify me, but I'm working on it. Oh, and I wasn't born in a fire truck. I just said that to get you interested.

Word of the Day: Deliquate. To melt down.

Go here to provide the Pootle with feedback, ask her for a light, talk about her new novel, Three Things About Me, or simply to say hi.