Three fire tucks. Twelve firemen. Me, with burning cheeks and rubber boots, holding a canister under the hole in the oil tank, my two feet in a pond of fuel. Windows open, heating and electricity off, suffocating smell of gas... That wasn't a nightmare. That was my house, last Thursday.
The insurance guy, the after-disaster expert, the oil company, the cleaning company, the new tank team, the minister of environment, the curious neighbours, all around, while experts were tearing walls apart and breaking ceramic tiles... That wasn't a bad dream. That was my house, last Friday.
Me, with respiratory problems and a headache, and the kids, away from home since then... That is not a holiday. That is our actual situation.
Calamity. Upon us.