Mr. and Mrs Fulton from Finchley Avenue had many faults, normal, everyday idiosyncrasies, just like everyone else. They enjoyed a refreshing glass of wine on the weekends, a fleeting flutter at the bookies for Mr Fulton and a secret appreciation of Chippendale videos for Mrs. Fulton.

But they did not smoke.                                                                        

“Filthy habit,” Mr Fulton heatedly declared.

“Disgusting and unhealthy,” lectured Mrs Fulton.

And so the Fulton residence was a smoke free zone and had been for many years. That is, until their only daughter Renee was requested by her parents to bring home her current suitor. Parental protectiveness and a misconception concerning their daughter’s maidenhood prompted the prescence of Percival Prendergast in their parlour that particular evening and a very unsuitable suitor he turned out to be .Conversation was carried on in a very unusual manner, consisting of grunts and groans from Percival, an occasional shoulder shrug and, once, a very vigorous shaking of his multi coloured mop. With great reluctance, the Fultons released Renee into Percival’s care, silently vowing to separate the two as swiftly and speedily as possible. The concerned couple retreated to the kitchen to dull their distress with a glass or two of Sauvignon Blanc.

Meanwhile in the minimalistic., modern drawing room, a life changing event was unfolding. A wisp of white smoke slipped silently from the depths of the sofa. Enlarging and expanding, assisted by air and aubergine brocade, the stifling smoke became deeper and denser, encouraging the fire to follow swiftly along. Fiery fingers of flame caressed the couch, passionately embracing and cuddling the cream chintz. Spreading, spraying, a pyrotechnic display of destructive delight. Colours cascaded, circling the room, orange, red, yellow, a burst of blue, a glimpse of green, as melting materials met with the Master. Glass bubbled and cracked, delph disintegrated, curtains caught fire and fell in flaming folds to the floor.

And still our couple wined and dined in the kitchen, oblivious  the raging imminent danger, Until, that is, smoke slipped seamlessly beneath the door and surrounded the stairway with a grey gloom.

“My Dear, can you smell something strange?” sniffed Mr Fulton.

“Yes, of course, Dearest. Those awful cigarettes belonging to that dreadful boy.” stormed Mrs Fulton.

“Well, the offending odour lingers for a very long time. Suffocating stench. I will open some windows in the lounge..”

As Mr Fulton approached the kitchen door, a frightening, fearsome feeling left Mrs Fulton faint and frozen in situ. Split seconds before the blue ball of burning debris burst through the open door and hungrily consumed the couple, she knew. Thankfully death claimed her before the full extent of her darling daughter’s diabolical plan could break her fragile heart.

And so, on returning home, Renee witnessed the success of her strategic planning.

No home, no parents no restrictions, no curfew.

“Oh, Percival, what shall I do?” she cooed coquettishly to her co-conspirator.

“Job well done, My Pet  As well done as your parents, eh! Tragic. Faulty wiring, do you think? Now, where did you say that safe was.”

“Hmm! Yes!  What a pity you decided to stay with Mumsy and Pop, Percival. All burnt up now!”

And she shoved the unsuspecting suitor into the remainder of the burning building.