the story of sarah and the boremag and the house full of ammunition that burst into flames

3 things before we begin this tale

# 1 - apologies for all of you who have heard this story before. public demand is so great that i feel i simply must give them what they want.
# 2 - for those of you who don't know - the boremag is this afrikaans terroristy type group who, obviously, base themselves on an apartheid type racism (if anyone is an expert on what they do ... please comment and tell us all. i actually dont know much. apart from the fact that they're a little scary and roll their 'r' s a lot)
# 3 - the neighbourhood i lived in at this time was lovely! it was a cul-de-sac and filled with retired people and young families and people who sang musical theatre.

the day started like many others. and then it became night. for the night is when this story really begins. it was a summer night in december. and not a mouse was stirring. except for the active terrorists living next door. when all of a sudden ! GASP! what is that sudden bang?! and my gran is shaking me 'sarah sarah!' she yells, 'sarah someone's house is on fire! it could be ours!' i awake and shove on my furry pink monster slippers and run out the door. sure enough, flames are pulsing over the garage roof... using my supernatural senses and my terrible eyesight i gather that the fire is coming from next door! hear the fire truck beee baaa bee baaaing down some road somewhere, see my grandfather struggling down the garden with our watering hose, not that its attached to a tap or anything ... maybe he wanted to beat the flames down with the thin plastic pipe? run, plug it into the nearby faucet. still no fire engine. can hear the damned thing. the whole neighbourhood is standing on the side of the road. pause, take a minute to look at everbody's night time apparel. its funny. old mrs bosch from number 22 is in some lacy number. he he. turn to survey the damage - its only the garage on fire ... both cars engulfed from the inside, they suddenly collapse as their tyres burst. the fire fighters eventually arrive, they fight the fire. they win. its an anticlimax of sorts. i speak with the fire men. they enter my house. we drink coffee. eat mince pies. they offer me a ride on the fire truck on christmas day, i accept.

the next morning, i go and look at the damage. there are police everywhere! and they are tying yellow 'CRIME SCENE ... DO NOT CROSS...' tape around the house. i think it's pretty cool. i steal some. a police man approaches. i look guilty. i he asks me if i was present last night. i say yes with a no - i - did - not - start - the - fire - if - that's - what - you're - asking look on my face. he's obviously a rookie cop because he then proceeds to spill the entire story to me. turns out the nice old couple next door worked for the boremag as a weapon's storage facility and they had a bunch of bullets and guns and stuff stored in the garage and something had happened and the small little fire (a cigaratte smouldering? friction?) caused the entire arsenal to explode. the trees surrounding the house - where we'd all been standing the night before - were riddled with bullets that had shot out of the garage during the fire. it was a miracle nobody had been hurt. the old people were missing.

and in answer to the question you're all going to ask me -
no, i never did get to ride on that fire engine ....