The Day My Toilet Caught Fire

Today, in a picturesque small town called Rye on the South coast of England, my friend Barry is celebrating his 80th birthday. And he'll have with him most of his far-flung children, their spouses (from Australia, Canada, Hawaii and Britain), and his grandchildren with him to make this a very special day.

Barry has always called me his "adopted daughter", which brings a lump to my throat everytime he says it.

I've know Jean and Barry for over twenty years now. Jean came to teach here with CfBT (Centre for British Teachers) and was posted to Kluang. Barry came with her as a non-working husband, though within a year had taken over the running of the 'A' Level programme when the previous Project director died suddenly of a heart attack, and thus became not only friend but boss for a while.

We stayed friends after Jean and Barry moved back to Britain, and I used visit them in Plymouth. Later they came out to live in Malaysia again when Jean was involved in resourcing our college library for the B.Ed programme.

Anyway, cue the burning toilet story which Barry teases me about to this day. He says it could only happen to me. But it really wasn't my fault ...

At the time (mid 80's) I was teaching at the famous (or should that be infamous?) Malay college, and one day Barry (as big boss) came up on an official visit to check on our progress. I agreed to host a gathering of all the British teachers on the programme at my place. (I rented the upper floor of a semi-d from the Hokkien family who lived below.)

I cooked all day, and around seven in the evening my colleagues began to arrive. Irene and Alan who taught Economics, John who taught Business Studies, Lorri who taught Geography, and then Chris and Neil, who both taught English with me, turned up with wives and kids in tow.

Of course there's that little period of chaos whenever you hold a gathering - folks all arrive at the same time and you're letting them in, and greeting them, and saying thank you for the flowers, and opening the wine, and getting them a drink and so on.

So I had my hands full when, amid this chaos Chris pointed out that the lightbulb in my loo had gone and asked if I had a candle because his kids wanted to use it. I found one, gave to to him and thought nothing more of it.

The evening went very well, we talked shop for a while, then ate and chatted. The only thing that surprises me, looking back, was that in all that time no-one went to the loo.

Alan was helping me to wash plates in the kitchen while the rest continued to party, when we heard a strange sound like oil frying in a pan. Oddly enough, it was coming from the toilet!

Alan and I looked at each other and, mystified, crept up to the door to listen. What on earth was happening inside? I yanked the toilet door open and a huge cloud of black smoke whoofed out into the flat causing my guests (boss included) to run screaming to the balcony. Soot blacked every inch of my lounge and highlighted most embarrassingly all the cobwebs I had failed to clean in my slatternly housekeeping.

Alan and I meanwhile hurled buckets of water at the flames, which fortunately were easily extinguished. But the plastic cistern of my squat loo was now a molten puddle on the floor, the tiles were blackened and cracked, and the window broken. It was a scene of utter devastation.

We were all totally mystified as to the cause of the fire. It was only next day that that idiot Chris (who ironically been the first guest to go home and had missed the excitement) said that it was just possible perhaps that it had been caused by the candle he'd left burning, stuck to cistern without anything underneath it.

I got workmen in and managed to get the damage repaired without my cantankerous landlord suspecting anything.

But the damage to my reputation has never been repaired, and Barry loves to remind me of that.

Happy Birthday, anyway Barry. I'm thinking of you today and sending my love from across the world.