Fires in the Long Grass

It's an unnaturally hot day and crowds of people are sitting about on a green, enclosed by crumbling red brick walls. They're sitting and chatting and sipping cool drinks as they complain about the heat.

I'm trying to play with my dog, but he isn't really interested in running about. Instead he prefers you to turn the garden hose on him and will only run after his ball when he's wet. He also has his eye on a Malamute puppy that is bouncing about around a group of people sat on chequered picnic blankets.

In a corner, under the shade of a tree, my father is cutting the grass, which is unusually long for the time of year. He is very happy with the fuel efficiency of the lawnmower he is using, particularly seen as small mowers like this generally don't get many 'cuts to the litre' (or so he tells me).

Then comes the alarm bell and it's a fire evacuation drill. Everyone looks suddenly confused by the fact the grass has turned into the wooden floor of a school hall and they're all now wearing a curious assortment of uniform bits and pieces. No-one is quite sure where to go, although the general thinking is we should be outside on the grass.

We make our way outside and form semi-orderly lines behind small pink/purple circular signposts that are lined up in a flower bed. No-one is quite sure if they're stood in the right line and all are hoping for someone in authority to tell them whether or not they are in the right place.

I find it all very frustrating and just wish I could be back out on the grass with my dog and his ball.