Dear Mr. Bigelow,
If ever you get a nice warm fire burning in Casa Bigelow – one that is not authorised, I mean – just let me know and I'll come over right away with my little stirrup pump, and my even littler hatchet, and put it out for you. Me, thoroughly experienced putter-out-of-fires. Since last Saturday. About which I will now proceed to tell you:
Eleven years ago, or thereabouts, I reluctantly bought myself a pair of slacks for fire-watching and air-raids in general. I dislike women in trousers, and myself especially, but they have their uses in such troublesome times. Since 1945, however, mine have resposed with moth balls in the rag-box. Two weeks agoI fished them out, cleaned and pressed them, and to my joy discovered they still fit! I think they must fit a little more closely than when they were new, for I know my weight is up fifteen pounds or more over war-time years; but they fitted well enough.
So I clad myself in them on Saturday and rushed headlong after luncheon, full of good food and peppermint, to the place where the local Corporation people burn out refuse, and where a shed is placed at the disposal of the Civil Defence crowed for training such as me. I was the only one (apart from two men) to arrive wearing trousers, but we all finished up wearing navy blue boiler suits (men for the use of) so I was practically the only comfortable woman present. Especially as I have such large feet they almost fitted the rubber gum-botts feet, and in spite of stuffingthe toes of the gum-boots with their gloves, they could only proceed by shuffling along. When it was their turn to be No.4 in the team (the water fetcher) we had to hold up the fire until they had shuffled the fifty yards or more to the water faucet and back.
Being silly-like, and nobody else showing any signs of volunteering, I went first. There was a small tin shed, with a corridor at the back and a door opening from this into the main room. This latter was fitted up with a furnishing scheme I don't think Park Avenue would approve of. There was a large armchair, sort of greeny-black in colour and circa 1900 in years; there was a sofa of completely indeterminate shade and no pedigree whatsoever; there was a little sort of table and there was a pile of wood shavings. All the furniture was covered with wood shavings too, I would mention. In one corner was a small incendiary bomb which the instructors lit, as they did also the piles of wood shavings. When they thought it was nice and warm and smokey one of them yelled "Fire!," and this was my cue. I dashed (at least two yards) to the door in the corridor. Opened this a trifle, reeled a bit, recollected myself and shouted "Water on." Remembered I was English, and hastily added "please".
This is the opening scene. If you would like time out now for a drink or a smoke, please do so. The three-piece orchestra will play (probably "In a Monastery Garden") during the interval. If your appetite is now sufficiently whetted, we will return to the scene of the conflagation.