Flamus Interruptus

We finally farewelled the pyre that has been accumulating in our back paddock last night. It was touch and go, due in no small part to gusty breezes which made igniting such a big fire dangerous but as predicted, the breeze dropped, copious amounts of petrol soaked toilet paper led to a spectacular flare and the heavy drinking and revelry began. No problems, a reasonable sized crowd, a well mown surround to the embers and rakes and hose at the ready. All went well until about 12:30 when three men, dressed in large black jackets and baggy pants wearing funny hats and reflectors walked down from the road at the top of our paddock. Normally, I would have been concerned about gate-crashers but the flashing lights on their big red truck was a give-away. Some doogoody suburban scumbag had called the fire brigade!

Now by rights, I should have had a permit to burn 'flammable refuse' but this year I didn't bother. Apparently the rules have changed and any burn is now controlled by NSW fire brigade (Real firemen with bigger trucks and more flashy lights) not the Rural Fire Service. Such is the encroachment of the burbs on our little haven.

Unlike the firemen which appear in those calendars, two were young and handsome, the third, a big frosty fella who took the dim view. Obviously a quiet night at Kellyville Fire Station. So, I stood there for 20 minutes as the 'responsible' adult (Shit we were all adults, there wasn't a person under 20 in sight) and copped a hammering from Fireman Sam about putting house fires out and there being no signs of a fire hazard around the place. How he could see in the dark still amazes me as the fire was by now a steaming heap of blackness and there's no fire hazard material around the place because we just sent it to hell and back on the fucking bonfire! Patronising shite.

Anyway, it all ended well. The remaining embers were doused, the girls had their photos taken with the two handsome ones and I went to bed angry at my friggin neighbours.