Vygotsky Schmygotsky.

If you have ever taken A Level Psychology and passed with more than a C, I salute you. After suddenly realising the extreme amount of revision that needs to take place before the exam on Tuesday, I spent the whole of yesterday cramming the topic of 'Relationships'. This consisted of sitting up to the kitchen table with a very bored George who was pretending to revise with me, but actually playing Scrabble online. (It's okay George... I know your secret.)

I'm sure that if my poor boyfriend hears any more about Duck (1999) and his theory of relationship breakdown, we will have a relationship breakdown. (Lack of skills, lack of stimulation, lack of motivation. Intrapsyhic, diadic, social, gravedressing. Rinse and repeat.)

But the most exciting thing about yesterday wasn't revision - oh no! It was, surprisingly, a fire.

If you know me that well you'll understand that 'surprisingly' was actually typed with a slight hint of sarcasm. When I was 11 we had a house fire which left us out of our house for the good part of a year, provoking a visit from the Daily Mail and a brief appearance on Meridien News. It's now my Dad's running joke to yell "Don't burn the house down!" when he goes out for the evening.

So George and I are sitting up to the table, waiting for our lunch to cook, when black smoke starts filling the kitchen. I head on over to the oven only to find our burgers getting a good flame grilling... literally. Unlike in Dr Cav's little anecdote during a particularly boring lesson, I did not run outside screaming and throwing the pan onto the grass. Instead, I quickly consulted George, grabbed a teatowel, soaked it, and announced "I'm going to throw this over it, open the grill!"

George grabs the flaming tray, I chuck the soggy teatowel onto it, and... miss. Well, I never did pride myself on my athletic ability. This is where the 'F' word falls out of my mouth several times, before I find the courage to pick up the teatowel and try again. Success! Hallelujah! Panic over. (Sidenote: the word 'teatowel' is really funny. Say it!)

For the next fifteen minutes we fanned the kitchen, with all the windows and the back door wide open, frantically Oust-ing all over the place and trying to get the grill to work again, in an attempt to hide the accident from my Dad, who would, needless to say, never trust us alone in the house again. The following conversation follows:

Dad: I can smell smoke...
Me: *Silence*
Dad: Why are all the windows open?!
Me: It was hot in here...
Dad: C'mon... admit it...
Me: *Nervousness*
Dad: ...you burnt your lunch, didn't you?
Me: Erm. A little.

This is being kept under wraps for good, so no telling on me. Please.