I remember well from my boyhood in genteel Torquay of old,

How distant were dreams of central heating to fend off creeping cold.

I became something of an expert in making up a daily pyre

Of  dry wood sticks and newspaper rings to ignite the living room fire.

The large front page of the Daily Telegraph was placed - ready to bring in

Once struck matches had done their job and the process seen to begin.

Like a matador with his trusty cape I wielded the previous day's DT

To persuade the flames to draw their breath and rise up in front of me.

But the time I will always recall with glee was the day my elder brother

Stuck his nose into my personal ritual, unknown to our mother

Who had taken refuge in the bath for some out of sight respite

Unaware my older brother was inflicting his own brand of delight.

Oh what a hoot when the chimney soot fell down in lumps of flame

And the culprit looked so panic-stricken - no longer was this a game!

Desperate measures were called for and that meant the local brigade,

And the first our poor mother knew of it was hearing their bell played.

To say that she was angry is something of an under-statement

And no obvious sign was shown by her of any immediate abatement.

She was not impressed to emerge half-dressed from her peaceful ablutions

To discover several hefty helmeted men attempting hose-pipe solutions,

Soaking and staining the carpet black with ash trodden in by their boots,

They eventually got things under control and drove off with mocking toots.

 That wafted back on smoky air to reach our embarrassed ears

With both sons left preparing for the realisation of well-earned fears.

But to our surprise mother proceeded to sink into a nearby chair

With half-hearted little gestures to tidy up still damp hair.

And we - for our part - did our best to clean up and amaze her -

But the elder brother never quite lost his tag of "family fire-raiser"!

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