Published: Press and Journal July 25, 2011
Quite how the police haven’t been round here to deprive me of my freedom to write this, I’m not sure. Having come close to setting fire to a certain Stornoway hotel, it is fair to say that I have been slightly concerned that, by now, I would have my collar felt and be slung in a cell on a charge of fire-raising. It was an accident, your honour.
As the cops are obviously a bit slow off the mark, I can get my excuses – sorry, the true version of events – in first. We were out for a scoff in the Western Isles’ top inn on Saturday evening to celebrate my brother-in-law’s birthday. It was a big one for Duncan with an 0 in it. So we had pudding and everything.
Everyone was in great form. Duncan’s brother Peter was in top form. He was winding up the waitress with his obsession with perfection demanding to know what was fresh and what was from the freezer. She assured him his carrots and broccoli would indeed be absolutely the freshest available.
After that he decided to order a cold drink with loads of ice. Peter shouted after the poor girl: “And make sure it’s fresh ice. Don’t bring me any of that frozen muck.”
With all that going on, I must have somehow become a bit distracted. For some reason, I didn’t notice that I’d put down my menu too close to a tea light – a tiny candle-type thing which posh places like the Caberbeidh Hotel, which is where we were, put out to create a lovely romantic atmosphere.
At one point I think I noticed tiny flames licking round the base of the ice bucket. Ah, I thought to myself, how delightful. It is thoughtful wee touches like the tea lights that really add a lovely, warm ambience to the entire celebration. It was Mrs X, sitting next but one to me, who raised the alarm. A model of decorum, she did her best to ensure there was no panic or stampede when she spotted the flames.
Her first whisper asking if I knew there was a fire on the table was, I thought, her idea of a joke. Oh be quiet, I really have not had that much to drink. Stop mucking about, I told her firmly. She persisted. I turned and discovered my menu was indeed on fire and the flames by then were eating in towards the middle. Gosh. How did that happen?
By now red-faced and looking ever so slightly concerned, my beloved began to hiss questions at me. What was I thinking? Was I going to call the fire brigade? Why was I was just sitting there just looking at it? She was very controlled. The screaming came later when she got me home.
What my wife had obviously forgotten was that I have been highly-trained to deal with such threats and dangerous situations. I was in the ATC, you know. Flight Lieutenant Norman Maclean had taught me everything he knew about tricky situations. I merely needed a few seconds to coolly assess the danger and the modus operandi before I sprang into action.
Unfortunately, the implementation of plan A didn’t quite work. Trying to blow out the tabletop fire merely fanned the flames into a veritable furnace which then blew back and singed my left eyebrow. As I gasped for breath again, an airborne red-hot ember rose from the flaming menu, came straight at me and flew up my nose.
Despite the inferno in my left nostril, I remembered Norman’s instruction to stay calm at all times. It had also been drilled into me not to cause a scene. So I made sure that the other partygoers were blissfully unaware that, while they may have thought it somewhat odd that I had taken to shovelling copious quantities of Bailey’s ice cream into my mouth, little did they know that I was in fact spooning it into another orifice to cool things up there. Meanwhile, with my other hand, I calmly scooped ice and
cold water from the bucket to dowse the now-blazing menu. Job done.
Then, throwing my napkin over the blackened, sodden tablecloth and piles of ash, I leaned over to Aeneas Maclean sitting opposite and said: “Now, what was I saying?” Most of them had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Master mariner John Shaw had continued his tales of funny people in far-off places uninterrupted, and my sisters-in-law Joey and Annie Mary continued their tales about when they were young in Harris. Ach, James Bond would have been proud of me.
Only Peter’s wife, Catherine, noticed that my quick-thinking had undoubtedly saved the landmark hotel from a terrible disaster. I tiptoed out of the dining room before manager Tom and his staff started tidying up and have been waiting for the knock on the door since. Afterwards, Catherine asked me what had happened. Nothing, I said. It was just an unfortunate accident which could have happened to anyone. I had it under control the whole time, I assured her.
Maybe it was me, but I felt she hadn’t quite believed me. I hoped she didn’t think it was negligence on my part that had caused the hotel to be nearly burned to the ground.
“Hmm,” she said, in that strange tone that certain women have when they don’t believe you. “Bet you won’t be writing be about that in the Press and Journal, will you?” Me? I said. No, certainly not. I’m far too modest to do any such thing.”
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