By Laura Hutchinson
RECENTLY, I witnessed a crash between a car and a motorbike. And the whole incident served to remind me of just how blonde I am. (As if I needed reminding.) How? Because I called the emergency services and asked for a fire ambulance. The poor woman on the phone was all, “Well, which is it?”
And it wasn’t just a once-off, either. It’s something I’ve been doing for quite some time, mixing up fire brigades and ambulances. Thankfully, I don’t think anyone was hurt in the accident, but if they had been, my bumbling buffoonery would have cost them precious seconds.
Clearly, I’m not the type of person you’d want to have around in an emergency. I’d be too busy trying to figure out how to speak properly to be of any real use to anyone. By the time I’d correctly deduced which way was right and which was left (also known as “your other right”), your house would’ve burned down and you’d have had half your face eaten off by zombies.
Likewise, if your house alarm is going off, and all your worldly possessions and treasured belongings are being thrown into a big black bag marked “swag”, you can expect me to be sitting on my couch, eating chocolate, watching TV and cursing the fact that your alarm is distracting me from the latest episode of America’s Next Top Model. Ditto your car alarm.
But rest assured that it’s not just your life I’m likely to mess up, it’s my own too. The sounding of a smoke alarm is more likely to make me cover my ears than run for the hills. I’ve often been staying in hotels when the fire alarm has gone off, and all I’ve done is roll over and pray for it to stop soon. The fact is, unless I hear someone banging on the door in a panic, or unless I can actually feel the flames licking my feet, I’m assuming that some idiot has been sneakily smoking in the toilets. And more often than not, I’m right. I live my life by the general rule that all alarms are false alarms.
And let’s face it, even if I was acutely aware of an actual imminent danger, chances are I’d be dead quite soon after dialling 999 to ask for magical, make-believe emergency services. I’d be taking my last breath as the poor operator tried to figure out if she was the victim of some prank call. “Yes, I’d like a fire ambulance, please. And, when you’re done, send on some pixies and leprechauns. And a unicorn, if you’ve got one handy. Is Harry Potter there?”
I’d also most likely be on Facebook updating everyone on my plight. There’s a picture going around the internet of a sign that reads, “In case of fire, exit building before tweeting about it.” That sign was designed for people like me. My last tweet will most likely read: “For some reason, the emergency services aren’t taking me seriously. Now my hair’s caught fire...” So, folks, please think twice before contacting me in an emergency. Even if I’m the closest person to you, you’re much better off going with someone else. You’d have more chance of being helped by MacGuyver than getting me to respond in any meaningful way. The man would have fashioned some life-saving apparatus from old tea towels before I’d even made it out of bed. The poisonous snake would be halfway up your leg before I’d even logged into Twitter. You’d already have given birth in your shed while I was still trying to remember whether you’d even told me you were pregnant.
Even if I managed to come to my senses quick enough to grab a phone, who would I call? Knowing me, Ghostbusters.