Life In London: January 2004 Archives

Well Done, Ram


I admit it; I am not a fan of professional athletics. My idea of a perfect sports-related evening is when my wife finds somebody else to go to a baseball game with her, so that I can stay home and watch a Busby Berkely musical. (By the way, if anybody ever holds a contest to construct the least heterosexual sentence possible that contains the phrase "my wife," I plan on entering the one you have just read.)

But Lauren has always thought it would be fun to go to Wimbledon, and since going to Wimbledon will never require a smaller investment of time than it does now, I agree to come along.

And thus it is that, on a beautifully sunny day that would be absolutely perfect for sitting inside watching a movie, I find myself having to endure fresh air and world-class athletics.

British for "911"

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As I sit at home working, I smell something that smells kind of like candles burning. I look around my flat, but there seem to be no candles. Then I see smoke gushing past my window. I look outside, and it is clearly belching from a window of the building next door. The building is set back a bit, so I can't see exactly where it's coming from, but it seems to be a window in the third floor flat, which almost unquestionably must be on fire.

Should I go outside and check? No--if I delay, people could die. I call 999 (which is British for "911") and report what is happening.