Light a match.

Yep, as a kid, I loved fire. Actually, I still do. There is nothing better, than sitting in front of an open flame, staring in, getting lost in the flicker, crackle and radiant warmth.

My early memories of fire, were not so soothing, allow me.

Growing up, I once lost my bedsocks somewhere at the deep end of my bed. So, I thought it a suitable idea to go fetch them, aided by the light of a box of matches. Now, when you're young, you're not making that much space between the mattress, and the doona, however I forged on. I ended up finding my socks, not a remarkably difficult task, I confess, but unfortunately it did not go unnoticed by my mother.

As I skulked down to breakfast, my Mum asked why she could smell matches, "I dunno", I said. She walked closer, rubbed her hand on my forehead, disturbing what was left of a singed fringe, totally singed, singed off in fact.

I was in a wee bit of trouble.

With no where to go, I confessed to my expedition, which was not so well received by my Mum, and so she decided, as good parents do, to teach me a suitable lesson so that I would not do it again. Hide the matches? Give me a torch? Show an example of something burning? No....

She light a match, blew it out, then burned my hand with it!

Well, I can tell you, it fucking hurt! I still have a small scar on my hand to prove it.

Well, not to be outdone by this "lesson", I thought I might get my own back. I went to school, and in our daily writing exercise, recounted the bedsock episode, and the burned hand I received as punishment. I then proceeded to read it to the class.

This all ended well, with a meeting with my Mum and the teacher, where she assured the teacher of our impeccable family balance.

I wasn't burned again, at least by my Mum!