BEEP.... beep.... beep... beep.

For the past few weeks I’ve been bothered by an intermittent, high-pitched pirrup.

At first I thought it was coming from the street – perhaps a car alarm making a pathetic attempt to ward off crooks. Or a neglected building whose burglar alarm was making one last stab at protecting the premises.

As with all irritating noises, it came and went and seemed vaguely to shift location. At night it was definitely coming from downstairs. In the daytime, it disappeared altogether.

It reminded me of many a car trip with my father who would obsess over the tiniest, weeniest squeak, shuffle or clank.

It would inevitably lead to all conversation being banned as we strained our ears to listen for the offending noise. Most of the time we couldn’t hear a thing, but Dad would not give up.

“It’s coming from the boot.... no, it’s in the back seat, can you have a look?... I’m going to have to pull over... right, I’m booking it into the garage.”

So it was almost with relief a few nights ago that my mystery pirrup revealed itself – it was the smoke alarm in the basement, which runs on the mains but has a back-up battery built into it as well, so even though the alarm is working properly the battery can still fail and get on your nerves.

Anyway, mystery solved, annoying noise banished and life has returned to its peaceful norm.

At least the problem was easy to deal with this time – a few years ago a similar thing happened but unfolded over a slightly more dramatic evening.

On that occasion, all three smoke alarms decided to get in on the act, a chorus of chirruping, piercing assaults on my ear drums.

A brief investigation revealed a smoky smell coming the from basement (quite a feat given it’s riddled with damp – dynamite would have a hard time catching fire down there).

There was nothing else for it at that time of night – I called the fire station and a crew was dispatched to investigate.

My friend, who happened to be visiting, promptly bolted for the door.

“Where are you off to?” I said.

“I’m going home,” he said. “I’m not hanging around for a bunch of butch firefighters to turn up and rescue you, I’ll look like a wimp next to them.”

Cheers then, leave me abandoned in a slightly smoky building to meet my fate.

A team of four burly men in full fluorescent kit and enormous boots duly arrived moments later, marched into my basement and announced one of the most surprising things I’ve ever heard.

“Blimey, love – your smoke alarm’s caught fire.”

Right. The thing that’s supposed to protect me from fire is itself a fire hazard. Trade Descriptions Act, anyone?

It turns out a pesky bug had crawled in and made it its home, which had, not surprisingly, upset the mechanism and caused the unit to overheat.

I guess if I have to find a moral to this tale, it’d be don’t turn a blind eye to all those warnings put out by the fire service. Just because you have a smoke alarm, it doesn’t mean it’s working properly... or that it won’t try to start a fire of its own.

Don't come knocking

I HAVE to say, I agree with the RNLI’s ban on door to door charity collections.

In the same way that chuggers (charity muggers) pervaded our high streets a few years ago and you couldn’t walk more than a few paces without a tin be shaken in your face, I feel that to go door to door asking people for money is intimidating and an invasion of personal space.

Now this may be controversial and I’m sure a lot of people will disagree with me, but I don’t want random strangers interrupting my evening and demanding money from me.

I already donate to one charity on a monthly basis and volunteer for another one.

I know from personal experience how hard fundraising is. My fellow volunteers and I have baked cakes, knitted toys and gathered tombola prizes ad infinitum in a bid to raise cash.

We’ve also stood outside supermarkets for hours on end collecting people’s loose change.

There are so many charities out there, it is not easy competing for people’s attention and spare cash.

Happily, we live in a generous town and all our fundraising activities have been well supported.

But I still believe there’s a time and a place to do it, and it’s not in someone's home uninvited.

  • LAST week I mentioned the plight of Terry and Bert, who have been living rough in Swindon.

    Bert was rescued by kind-hearted strangers and given a roof over his head, but Terry remained at large on the streets.

    The unusual thing about the situation is that Bert is a cat, while Terry is a human.

    Now the people who launched the rescue mission to save Bert, and get him some much-needed veterinary attention, tell me that Terry too has good news on the horizon -–they say he has been found a council flat and will be moving in any day now.

    Bert is in foster care awaiting his forever home.

    Let’s hope he can join Terry in his new pad. Now that would be a truly happy ending