Mrs Fit stretched her long legs luxuriously in the steamy, bubbly, bath and gave a sigh of utter contentment. She contemplated her good fortune at having the house all to herself, a rare event, as she sipped a tall glass of bubbly and delicately bit into a chocolate truffle.
With Serge Gainsbourg crooning suggestively in the background and the warm, perfumed, water cocooning her, it wasn’t long before she drifted off to sleep where she dreamt a very desirable Frenchman was feeding her strawberry soufflé with his fingertips. As he was leaning in to whisper sweet words of passion into her ear she woke with a start to the screeching sounds of the smoke alarm.
Shattered, (she could only imagine what he was going to say) Mrs Fit grabbed a towel, climbed out of the bath and flew across the floor on her soapy feet, slamming straight into the bathroom door. She lay on the cold tiles, dazed for a minute or two before the screeching sound of the relentless fire alarm returned her to her senses.
Picking herself tenderly up off the floor, ignoring the searing pain in her knee, she anxiously opened the bathroom door and screamed in terror at what she saw. Thick, black, smoke was wafting into the bedroom. Panicked she slammed the door shut and climbed through the bathroom window onto the roof.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” she shouted from the rooftop. “My house is on fire!”
There was silence.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” she shouted frantically. “My house is on fire! Help me!”
But no one came to her rescue.
What was she to do? She peered over the edge of the roof. It was such a long way down it made her dizzy. But she had to get down or risk being burnt to death. So pulling the towel tightly around her she nervously eased herself over the edge of the roof and hung onto the guttering, which didn’t feel very sturdy at all.
“What in the blazes are you doing up there?” Baz, her father in law exclaimed. He was standing right under her. Mrs Fit wanted to die. She was naked underneath the towel remember.
“The house is on fire,” Mrs Fit sobbed, needing to be saved but wishing he would go away.
“Is it?” Baz asked. “Are you sure? I’ll get the ladder! Freddy! The house is on fire!” he shouted before disappearing into the shed.
“Is it?” Freddy, Mrs Fit’s husband asked from the bathroom window.
“Isn’t it?” Mrs Fit gasped. At any minute her arms were going to be pulled from their sockets.
“I don’t think so,” Freddy said. “Oh you mean the smoke alarm?” he asked pulling her back onto the roof top. “Sorry about that. I came home early and felt a bit hungry so gave the leftovers from last night a bit of a blast in the microwave. Turns out I blasted them for one hundred minutes instead of one.”
But Mrs Fit wasn’t listening. She was desperately grabbing at the towel which was plummeting to the ground. Naked, she scrambled across to the window but it was too late, Baz was back with the ladder. He watched speechless as Mrs Fit threw herself through the window.
As did Marjory from next door, who had just returned from her Neighborhood Watch meeting. Oh and the couple walking their dog, the kid on his skateboard and of course we can’t forget her poor children who were being dropped off from their play dates at that very minute.
Poor Mrs Fit took her bottle of champagne and went to bed where she desperately tried to return to her Frenchman. Sadly, she ended up dreaming of Shrek feeding her slimy ox tongue with his grotty fingers instead.
Have you ever tried to burn the house down with your microwave or any household implement before? If you have I would love to hear all about it.