...eighth world wonder...

There's a fire alarm blaring around me, in my parents building. Paul, the gorgeous work-at-home writer neighbour, and I headed down the hall to the stairwell and started going down from the 20th floor. It smells a little dusty, smoky. Somewhere around the 15th floor, the PA system crackled on, and a barely comprehensible voice said "This is the Toronto Fire Services, we are investigating a fire in the second floor stairwell. Please stay in your units until further notice.

Paul and I look at each other. He rolled his eyes, and we started jogging back up the stairs, looking warily behind us and down the stairwell.

So now I'm sitting at the computer, my head hurting from the alarm and the flashing lights, pondering the fact that there is an actual fire in the building and it's blocking the only way out, being as the elevator is obviously not running. I'm talking to Lizzy as I write this.

"You and fires, baby girl, what's up with that?" she asks, after sending me much love from SLC. Tell me about it. It's like they follow me, can't get rid of it. The system kicks in again and the same voice announces that the stairwell has been secured, and upper-level residents should start evacuating. I tell her I have to go and prepare to head out.

"Go, go", she says, "and no more fires! Only in your pants. Happy Valentines Day!"