Fire!

We had a firedrill at work today. We didn’t know it was a firedrill, so when the siren started going off (yes, it’s a siren, not a regular alarm. It’s like an air raid siren from WWII London. I have to fight the urge to grab a thermos of tea and head for the nearest Tube station.), I went into fire panic mode. I probably wouldn’t be so nuts about the whole fire thing, if I hadn’t once been left homeless by one. Years ago, during my second year of college, someone torched my apartment building. No one died, but about 60 people were left homeless, and for the most part, possessionless. I spent the remaining month of school living on a friend’s couch and xeroxing notes. The university library system is probably still bitter about the 30 or so library books that were irreparably damaged. So, if you are a UVA student wanting to find out all about Japanese Noh drama and its connections to the work of William Butler Yeats, you are so out of luck. So when I hear a fire alarm, I get my ass in gear pronto.

It was quickly apparent that this was a drill and not a real emergency, so I decided to take a walk rather than fight my way back into the building. I ended up buying two pairs of shoes (and they were on sale). I decided a good way to celebrate not losing any more of my possessions (read: whatever crap I brought to work two years ago and have been too lazy to carry home. You know, I would really miss that official Washington Capitals hockey puck and the contents of my predecessor’s Rolodex.) by buying some more. That adorable pair of green tweed flats with little velvet bows has made this day bearable.