On not being on fire

On not being on fire

The phone rings.

I run downstairs.

"You're on fire!" shouts a shrill, yet cultured female voice.

"Wait...what?"

"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?"