Pan Fire

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I thought I was doing really well – I have made it to every session of my PGCE course so far, despite a mammoth commute, have handed in my first two assignments on time, have kitted up and seen off two children for university.  The house is a bit of a tip, but heigh-ho. 

In living at home with Nigel, I knew I was going to lose out on university life, but weighed against that are the advantages of retaining family life and links with old friends.

I was doing just this at the church Harvest Supper on Saturday, when in the middle of a speech about African AIDs orphans, I had a mental picture of…SMOKE!

 I realised with a shock that I had left a pan on at home.   I raced back.

I opened the front door on a pall of acrid grey smoke.  I thank God that it wasn’t worse – the house wasn’t actually on fire.

I guess a burning pan is the traditional way for a woman’s unconscious to tell her that she has too much on her plate.  I think I’ve just been told.

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