Please await further instruction.

This morning the fire alarm went off.

It started quietly, almost as if politely inviting me to get out of bed with its low honk, before developing in to more of a bellowing horn. Intermittently, about every 2-3 minutes, the goose-like racket would be interrupted by a voice:

'The fire alarm has been activated.' (No shit!) 'Please await further instruction.'

Well, gee, thanks. That's helpful advice. Here I am, in my pyjamas, awaiting your word on whether or not I should put shoes on - heck, maybe even underwear - in case I need to flee from the building. What kind of fire alarm system tells you to WAIT? Either I need to run from the blazing inferno or I don't.

Who decides when a fire is safe enough to stay indoors, or dangerous enough to run screaming down the road? Is there someone employed to press the button to change the man's voice to 'GET THE FUCK OUT! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!'? What if they missed the bus this morning?

As it happened, I didn't need to go anywhere. Nonetheless, Kristoff and I took great pleasure in standing at our kitchen's massive bay windows, watching as four (FOUR!) enormous orange fire trucks pulled up outside and a group of disgruntled firemen got out and loitered about for a while.

Ultimately though, we knew there wasn't fire because there was no one gathered rubber-necking on the street outside. The occasional passer-by spotted the fire engines, glanced up, looked puzzled by the lack of flames, and sauntered on.

Eventually we were left in peace and I had a shower. You'll be pleased to know I'm now wearing both shoes and underwear. And clothes.