On not being on fire
The phone rings.
I run downstairs.
"You're on fire!" shouts a shrill, yet cultured female voice.
"You're on fire! I can see the smoke!"
I run outside, clutching the phone. I am, it turns out, not on fire.
"Are you sure I'm on fire?"
"Yes!" says Mrs Shrill, now even more shrill and slightly less cultured, "I'm in Preston and I can see the smoke and the flames."
Preston is on the other side of town.
"Hang on...who do you think I am?"
"The RSPB. AND YOU'RE ON FIRE!"
"I'm in Wyke Regis and I am most certainly not on fire. If there is one thing missing from my life at the moment, it is the discovery of fire."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yes I am. I was just about to take a shower, I'll have you know."
"Oh. Sorry. Must be a wrong number, then."
"Also, I am in my front garden and naked."
Pants on fire.
Alternative ending suggested by the girl Scaryduckling
"No worries, love. We're just getting rid of a few excess swans. You couldn't pop over to Morrisons for a bottle of barbecue sauce?"