Vive les pompiers!

The other week, there I was sat at my desk trying to phone those who so lovingly brought me into this world. The usual battle was underway; a tangle of headphone wires resembling my après-tornado hair (a look I frequently sport) and the internet phoneline fireworks had just launched an unnecessarily aggressive offensive against my patience. A particularly persistent Catherine wheel crackle had just interrupted my flowing description of a 6c I'd been working on.

Oooh...Aaaah.

Mother dear: Why are you cooing?
Me: Oh, was I? sorry, it's just the pretty blue lights flashing outside.

Hang on - blue lights flashing outside?

Me: Er...I'll be right back...

A quick goggle outside revealed most of the French fire brigade rushing around outside my house, with a few police cars thrown in for good measure. I ran to get Beth.
"Do you think the house is on fire?"
"Ooh, er, maybe we should go and see."
"Well, they'd probably have told us if it was. I don't want to interrupt them if they're doing something important. [Pause] Especially not in French..."

An excited flap with our French housemate later and we were outside, apparently in the middle of some Buffy-style apocalypse. Fire engines lined the roads, smoke billowed from the lane beside out house, water was pouring down the street, and teams of men in full breathing equipment were dashing around heroically. A van of men with clipboards was parked outside my bedroom window, with two official-looking chaps hurriedly erecting a 10 foot pole on the top.
It was all a bit E.T.

Further investigation revealed that it was in fact all an elaborate training exercise, completely with smoke machines, pretend victims and closed roads. A fanastic show nonetheless, with front-row seats on my balcony, despite the giant pole wobbling past my window in search of signals from space, or some such endeavour.

As I was wallowing in the glorious drama of it all, my computer bleeped at me.
"Darling, are you alright? Is your house on fire?"

Back to normality...