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2004-06-03 - 4:27 p.m.

Today we had a fire drill at work and whilst the fire warden was checking everyone had made it out alive rather than dying of boredom half way down the steps, I sneaked a look-see at her checklist only to discover that I WAS NOT ON IT! I know I�m freelance, and rate just below carbon paper on the company�s most valuable assets list, but I�ve been here two years! That�s two years of living with the daily risk that I might be left for dead as the rest of the office lazily saunter outside whilst I remain, trapped in a corner by a tottering pile of old editions of the paper, or left under my desk as I retrieve my stress balls (no euphemism there I promise), or gazing out of the window as the flames lick at my shirt tails, the infernal heat causing my skin to melt and my eyeballs to burst, and I am unable to even shed a tear about the fact that I WOULD NOT BE MISSED BY MY COLLEAGUES. That�s tragedy, folks.

I�ve only been on fire once in my life. I was at a birthday banquet held in a dark cavern, all low lying tables and candlelight. I had just arrived and had immediately struck up a conversation with a cute and funny fellow guest, and was feeling quite sophisticated and pleased with myself, casting flirty glances as the light played on our faces. The mood was somewhat, and literally, dampened when she suddenly said, �Excuse me, I think your shirt�s on fire!� It took me a while to react, and I initially thought it was some kind of obtuse compliment, but as I looked over my shoulder, I had apparently been standing over one of the candles, and I was undeniably in flames. In one of my less seductive moves, I had to ask her to pour her drink down my back, which she obligingly did, but the situation from there on in is completely irretrievable, as you can imagine. The fact I had to spend five more hours there in a ragged shirt didn�t really improve my mood, despite escaping injury. I was instead scarred with the third degree burns of humiliation, which smouldered long into the night.

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