Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004


A huge commotion of dogs at the gate last night and I was greeted by clouds of smoke - the neighbouring field of cut silage going up in flames.  The technical term for this sort of event is "school holidays".

The field is very close to my bigger garage, so I phoned the Fire service.  Got someone in Glasgow who had no idea where I lived and had to argue and explain as the flames drew nearer.  At long last three firemen appeared on foot and began to try to stamp it out.   I enquired about water, supported by the screaming dogs.

"Oh no,"  he said.  "You can`t get an appliance down here." 

"Suppose it was my house?"

"You`re on your own". 

Yet another service I pay for and don`t get.   This time it`s my life on the line.  I will find a person in authority and raise hell.  Give him a roasting.

And I don`t feel much like supporting our noble firefighters any more.


A subject dear to my heart living, as we do, in a wooden cottage, miles from the nearest fire station, down an unsurfaced track, and with restricted access at the gate. If a delivery van can't get in. I doubt a fire engine would.

We've been a bit neurotic about fire precautions since the deaths in the village at New Year.
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