Carol’s Column

There’s no fire when there’s smoke

THERE was smoke everywhere. I couldn't breathe.

My lungs were bursting and my eyes watered. I knew my last moment had come.

What a way to go, suffocated in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Life was so unjust. I'd always fancied that death would come to me differently.

Perhaps while singing Aida at the State Opera, or falling off a white horse as a ravishing sheik swept me away to his gold-turreted palace, or even while boardsailing over the Victoria Falls.

But when death finally came, I wanted to go in a spectacular way. There was no fun in expiring on my lounge floor, alone and unappreciated.

Just then, the door opened and a waft of fresh air and my husband entered.

"Good heavens, are you trying to burn the house down?" he bellowed.

I couldn't reply as I was choking. Slowly, I crawled towards him and grabbed the end of his arch-supported Florsheim shoe.

"It's OK, you don't have to prostrate yourself before me," he said. He wasn't joking. And then: "What are you doing?"

"Being prepared," I muttered. "I was trying to light a fire and check the chimney so that when the cold spell comes my little family of 18 mouth-holes will be snug."

"What's wrong with an electric heater?" asked my spouse.

"A real fire is the heart of a home. It's warm, inviting, glowing. It makes everyone happy. An electric heater is like ersatz coffee made from potatoes."

"Perhaps we should move out of the house and move into a cave," said my husband in his inimitable way, "and then we can all chew chops around the fire and be cosy together."

It is at times like this that I remember my Great Aunt Ermentrude's words: "Never marry a man," she said. "They are cruel, uncaring beasts. Use them, enjoy them and then discard them"

My potential discard removed himself to the kitchen.

Meanwhile there was still smoke in the lounge.

I phoned our local Civil Defence group who were on the spot in minutes.

Brandishing gas masks, they cleared the lounge and after much debate, made some strategic suggestions. Such as having the chimney cleaned.

It will suffice to say that in Johannesburg, chimney sweeps are a dying breed, both were up someone else's chimney when I phoned and it seemed they were fully booked for at least two months.

Good heavens, my family might freeze in the interim.

My good friend Betty solved the problem, as she usually does.

"Phone the Norwood Cleansing Department and ask them to send their drain unblocker along," she said. "He'll stick his thing up the chimney, and wham, bang, away you go."

It's a long story, but our chimney was finally unblocked. Out fell two charcoal-grilled bricks, several gnarled oak tree branches, three sacks of blackened leaves and much soot.

But the chimney was clear.

The following day, I carefully laid a traditional fire, lovingly crumpling paper and building a pyramid of wood with three pieces of coal on top.

There was a whoosh and, like a rocket, flames shot up the chimney.

When whoosh, down the chimney shot an enraged and sooty pigeon.

Round and round the lounge he flew, blackening the walls, the curtains, the carpets.

Hearing strange sounds, my husband opened the door.

And saw a blackened wife, lounge and pigeon. "This is the end," he exclaimed, and hasn't been seen since.

But there is a really serious problem.

The insurance refuses to pay out because they say a pigeon flying down a chimney is "an act of God".

I wish God would choose his acts more carefully.

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