At around midday yesterday, having just fit two solar lights in my buddy Sarah’s garden, I picked up her nine month old grandson Rory from his pram, allowing him to survey his grandma’s new yard lamps. During this slow meander, in which we also took in the achromatic flowers in her pots, I was startled to hear an exclamation of “Gaz, me bins on fire!!” from the other side of the yard gate.

Upon receipt of the aforementioned lass’s cry, I headed toward the five and a half foot gate to see if this commotion was genuine alarm or one of the Yorkshire lass’s famous windups. A jape similar to when Brookington (as no one apart from me calls her) told me she was thinking of starting a tribute act of TV chef Ainsley Harriet, casting herself as a cook called Ainsley Chariot.

Footnote – Although quite enamoured with the adapted act moniker, her not being a man, black or any good at cooking it was a relief to find out that particular harebrained scheme was merely a joke.

As yours truly reached the gate to witness smoke bellowing from one of her wheelie bins, it became clear the refuge store was indeed alight. A scenario I’d have ordinarily been alarmed to’ve been confronted by, especially if it’d been indoors.

However, I found watching this play out a wonderfully comedic scene; subsequently, belly laughing to such an extent my stomach and capricious heart started to spasm. The latter symptom leading to my concerns I was literally going to die laughing.

Sarah was similarly in fits of laughter, my giggling levels maintained upon her request of “Should I just leave it?” An inquiry GJ Strachan countered with a suggestion it maybe prudent to dowse the flames with water from a nearby watering can…… Particularly if her end game was to save her wheelie bin from melting.

I’m actually laughing again recalling the incident’s plot line early Tuesday afternoon. The tale made even more comical when taking into account she herself started the blaze by putting a still smouldering log (from the previous evenings fire pit blaze) into the bin.

In Brookington’s defence there were no obvious signs the log was still smouldering. Well, apart from her detecting a slight warmness when tipping the wood and ashes from the fire pit into her garbage receptacle. A tepidness who’s source she took as consequential of the metal chiminea being in direct sunlight for a few hours.

“Fire!!…. Fire!!….. Don’t Panic Captain Mainwaring!!”

Luckily for Sarah, or should I say her bin, the Ossett lass’s German Shepherd Zella had answered a call of nature shortly after the smouldering wood entered the wheelie bin. Disposal of the dog’s poop into the refuge container unearthing the, at that point, clandestine fire.

Unluckily for my fragrant chum she threw the poop bag into the smouldering bin before thinking about the consequences. Subsequently, the polythene sack melted immediately, leaving a not insignificant amount of dog pooh barbecuing.

An event which, when accompanied with her observation “My s**t bag’s melted, Gaz!!”, augmented the riotous laughter levels of us both. These belly laughs becoming so severe I’d to put her grandson Rory into his pram from fear I might drop him, so out of control was my chortling.

Anyhow, the incident was resolved a few minutes later upon the blazes’ receipt of five litres of tap water. An action saving the dog poop from further cooking and, more importantly, saved Sarah the expense of purchasing a new wheelie bin from Wakefield council.

As we both surveyed the sorry looking insides of the bin, the Ossett lady turned to me and in relieved tones proffered “I think I’ll leave the bin lid open for a while to let it cool down.”…. Cue more riotous giggling!

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