Firefly

I didn't play with matches as a child. I didn't pull the legs off insects. I didn't smoke behind the bike sheds. I didn't smoke at all. We didn't even have any bike sheds.

I didn't get anything pierced. I didn't shoplift. I didn't swear at strangers. I certainly didn't litter. I didn't spit in the street. Or at all. I never told my teacher to fuck off. I didn't skive off school.

I did listen to music with a lot of swearing in, but it was mostly in my bedroom at a reasonable volume. Certainly not blaring out of my headphones. Mobile phones weren't around, but if they had been, I would categorically not have played my music out loud at the back of the bus.

I didn't beat anyone up. I didn't do graffiti. I've never smashed a window.

I didn't get drunk before I was seventeen.

I've never been in trouble with the police. I was never suspended or expelled from school.

But...

but.


But every Monday, from the ages of twelve to eighteen, I would set fire to an old people's home.

Not the same one, obviously. I'd get caught. And burning down ashes is no fun.

I mixed things up. Sometimes I'd travel to another town, just for the thrill of it.

I didn't play with matches as a child. I mentioned that before. But I did play with a cigarette lighter and some petrol. I did dabble in the odd Molotov cocktail.

I don't think I caused more than five or six fatalities. The old people's homes were pretty well drilled - they usually got everyone out OK. It was only the odd heart attack or forgotten loner that felt the lick of the inferno.

They got more and more prepared as the burnings continued. My reputation grew. The Grey Flame, they used to call me. I think. I've lost my scrapbook, but I think that's not just a name I made up.

The Grey Flame.

Sometimes, when I was scouting my next geezer barbecue, I'd overhear the residents talking about me in hushed tones. They were afraid. "Who could do such a thing?" they wheezed. "What's the world coming to?"

The world was coming to smouldering rubble. But I didn't say that.

Show, don't tell.

Sometimes I'd rescue insects from the fires. I didn't burn the legs off insects. They'd done nothing wrong after all.

I've never smashed a window, but I've melted a few. The fire brigade smashed some, so perhaps I was partly responsible.

Eventually, I outgrew it. Like you outgrow Guns N' Roses.

The Grey Flame was extinguished, and the elderly residents of Southampton could rest easy in their starched beds. They'd get consumed by loneliness, which is colder than fire, but penetrates more deeply. And has thicker smoke.

No-one ever found out. Because I was nice to my teachers and didn't tattoo bus shelters.

I was a good little boy.

***

That certainly went in an interesting direction, didn't it? It started with an honest description of my goody-goody childhood, then became quite dark.

That's probably what happens if you don't smoke or spit as a child. The smokers and spitters probably write really cheerful blogs about how much they love their disgusting children.

Incidentally, I don't think fire engines should be called fire engines. It makes them seem like they're supporting the fire. Arsonists should drive fire engines.

Fire fighters should drive water engines.

Or ladder wagons.

Of course, ladder wagons are currently driven by people who repair tights.

It's counterintuitive.