I was home alone a few weeks ago because the BFG had gone away for the weekend (I have decided to call G the BFG from now on. He is very friendly, and quite big in some areas. What? He has big hands you dirty people).
I was sitting doing something useful and intellectual, like blogging, when I noticed an acrid smell. I put it down to a neighbour's cooking fiasco and ignored it. But over the hours the smell got stronger and stronger until I was coughing. When I looked around me I realised the room was full of thick smoke. It smelled like burning plastic. I am a bit slow, so it took an inability to breathe for me to realise that perhaps something was wrong.
I stumbled about the house, checking to see if I had left an appliance on, but deep down I was thinking: goddamit, it's the ARSONIST! Our arsonist has struck again, in an attempt to kill us all!
I stumbled to the front door and looked out. None of my neighbours seemed to be evacuating. All was calm. But they could have evacuated hours ago, leaving me to die alone. So I grabbed my coat, and as I walked past the kitchen I thought I should just check the stove.
There I found the molten, charred mass that was once a loaf of bread. It seems I had left the stove on just above the 0 setting, and then dumped a loaf of bread on it, as you do. Throughout the day, the loaf had slowly but surely burned away. The plastic covering had melted all over the stove in interesting patterns, and the bread had become one fused black blob of charcoal.
The smell and the ashes were around for days.
I am not an arsonist. I swear it was not me who set fire to the building the first time. The arsonist is not a figment of my imagination. He lives.
You don't believe me, do you?