We moved into a quarter that had a gas fire in front of an open hearth, so I removed the gas fire (Corgi qualified? Well I had some Corgi cars as a kid, does that count?). I then decided that the chimney needed a clean before use, so I scrunched up a couple of sheets of newspaper, shoved them up the flue and lit them. Seconds later, they were well alight and there was a roaring sound and a strong draught at my feet as the flames made their way up the chimney, pulling all the air in Hampshire with them. It was a quiet Sunday summer’s morning and when I went outside to see what was happening, to my horror, there was a huge plume of black smoke emerging from the chimney pot, along with copious amounts of red sparks. The smoke plume grew to a good hundred feet or so and then began drifting slowly towards to the staish’s house. There followed an agonising ten minutes or so while this black column made its way over the airfield before finally dispersing. Luckily, no one called the fire brigade. With the chimney now clean as a whistle, we had a couple of cosy winters with a log fire in the lounge, although I was always a tiny bit concerned by the proximity of the gas pipe that fed the original fire, which was no more than a foot from the flames.