Something odd woke me up this morning. I heard strange popping noises and mused that rain drops must have become a lot fatter lately to make such a racket. After a while, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided I had better look out of the window. There was a massive fire about quarter of a mile away. The flames were leaping so high they were taller than the trees around them. I couldn't make out what was burning, but it was so intense and the base so wide and I wondered whether one of the planes coming into Heathrow had crashed. The December morning darkness seemed to encircle the orange flaming madness. Blue flashing lights disappeared and reappeared from behind houses as they hurried, wailing towards the maelstrom. At one point the fire suddenly became so violent, I thought I had better put my clothes on and have my morning cup of tea ready, in case someone came to evacuate us.
It was impressive how quickly the fire brigade controlled it all, within about 30 minutes you could see where the hoses were playing upon the flames as they were gradually replaced by more leisurely, billowing clouds of smoke.
It turned out the fire had destroyed a lovely little 100 year old wooden church hall a couple of roads away. Luckily no one was hurt, but it is still rather sad that such an atmospheric little place had turned to dust. When I went out to work later, the air smelt of cinders and it made me rather melancholy. There were some happy memories in that smoke.
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