The smoke alarms went off at 1am, waking me and probably the whole of Itchy Ankle. I tumbled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen where I stood naked on a kitchen chair to rip the alarm from the ceiling. I dragged the chair into the hall and decapitated that alarm too.
I checked the stove for a forgotten pot on a burning ring. Nothing. No haze in the air, and no smell of smoke. I checked the trash can to see if anything was smoldering. All clear. I looked outside in case arsonists had attacked the garden shed. All quiet. The garden is a blaze of color. Could that be the problem? Apparently not.
Then I remembered. The acupuncturist said my Fire was low this week. It’s the element that makes us exuberant, sparkling and enthusiastic. The man with the needles found my Fire flickering and dim on Tuesday and treated it along with my bad knees. Now my flame is burning bright. I am on fire. I am hot enough to set off alarms.