‘English Rose’ Julia and I were sitting in her spanking brand new kitchen checking out her daughter’s new boyfriend on Facebook (well, you have to don’t you), eating her yummy homemade lemon drizzle cake and sipping our Nespresso’s. So busy chatting we didn’t leave ourselves enough time to take our woofers up onto the Downs, so made do with a walk through the local woods instead. On returning to her house, we saw (and smelled) billowing noxious grey smoke emanating from the rear of her next door neighbour’s house. There was nothing for it but to call 999. Five minutes later, after picking up the local butcher from his shop (as he is one of the crew), two huge flashing engines wiggled their way up the narrow lane that leads to Julia’s house. By now the smoke had stopped. Completely. Even the pungent smell had disappeared. Two firemen leapt manfully out of the engine and approached us. We were convinced we’d be arrested for wasting emergency services’ time. But they were fantastic – although it transpired that the neighbour’s boiler wasn’t. Sadly the neighbour was either very private or not very popular, because no-one in the area seemed to know how to contact them. That’s the sort of thing you expect in an anonymous city, not a picturesque Sussex village. Anyhow, at least we believe we did the neighbourly thing, although I doubt they will see it that way when they return to find their oil supply cut off and their central heating disconnected. Ho hum.