WHEN a fire alarm penetrates your brain it’s not the fear of flames that makes you jump to it, it’s the perforated eardrum. Autopilot kicks in, propelling you from the building.
Well, in theory. Last week the sound of broken-hearted banshees went off at Crave HQ. As the boys and Big Red got up to evacuate I was torn over what to take with me.
It should be simple, right? You take yourself down the stairs and wait for the all-clear.
It would be if you didn’t have five figures worth of designer dresses hanging up all around you waiting to be photographed. As I articulated that I might need some assistance removing the clobber my request was met with laughter before being unceremoniously ousted from the office.
Standing outside in the rain, huddled under one umbrella thoughts turned to what you would rescue from a burning building.
Gallantly, people said their loved ones or heirlooms with sentimental value.
All this chat made me twitch as I felt like a captain who’d abandoned his sinking ships while Edinburgh’s finest went in to investigate the problem. Biting my lip was the only way to stop myself squealing “rescue the Kane and Erdem!” Thankfully it was a false alarm and equilibrium was reinstated on my reunion with the frocks. Some most definitely don’t like it hot.