Hot Water

"The bins on fire," my boss told me.

"What?"

"Outside. The Bin. It's on fire."

I looked. It was: smoke was wafting out the top. A lot of smoke. Some idiot had put a lit cigarette into the bin.

I raced to the kitchen, flipped on the tap and threw a bucket under it. I didn't wait for the bucket to fill because I didn't think I'd need all that much water. Within a minute I was outside dumping the water into the bin.

The smoke almost stopped, but then went on as strong as before.

"You're doing something wrong," said a helpful passerby.

"My mistake," I told him. "It was hot water so only made it worse."

I left him trying to sort that one out and raced back inside to re-half-fill the bucket.

This time, when I splashed the water into the bin, the smoke stopped. Mission accomplished. Disaster averted.

"That was so exciting," I told the girls at work, "I'm considering a career change."

When I told my story to Tracey I embellished a bit. "Do you think they'll make me Mr May or Mr December?" I asked, referring to the firefighters' yearly calender of hunks and spunks.

"Mr February," Tracey told me. Then, before I could get a big head, she added, "It's the tiniest month."

Burn.