Saving our fire brigades isn't about sentimentality, it's about life and death
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Version 0 of 1. Firefighters – what do they do really? Mostly they sit round playing cards and watching telly. Some of them have other jobs on the side, so surely we can get rid of them? We can save loads of money and sell off some historic fire stations which will make lovely warehouse apartments. Or swish restaurants. This must be the mayor of London's thinking as the appeal against the closure of 10 London fire stations was lost. Not just the stations, of course, but with them, more than 500 jobs will go too. Recently, teams from three of the stations closing were at the Apollo Theatre when part of its ceiling collapsed. While it is true that there are fewer fires than there used to be, it is also true that firemen do a lot more than just put out fires and response time (meant to be within six minutes) is a vital part of the service. Sometimes though they do put out fires, and when you see them do it, you understand in your gut that the workers of our emergency services are people who do extraordinary things. Routinely. Fire is terrifying. It is not the flames that get you but the smoke. When my flat caught fire many years ago, what seemed to be a small containable fire (yes, I was cooking) suddenly produced so much smoke I couldn't breathe. The top of the oven exploded. I ran outside and my neighbour who was the caretaker – it was a council flat – got a fire extinguisher. It was empty. He then helpfully rushed into my bedroom and threw a duvet into the kitchen which was by now ablaze. Hint: don't do this. Anyway the fire brigade were there within five minutes as I stood outside sobbing. Every bit of you wants to get away. Every physical impulse recoils from fire. Every instinct shrieks run. So I'll tell you what firefighters do. The very opposite. They crawl in under the smoke to smash out the windows before they blow. Then they get to work. And when all is smouldering, they start looking after you too. They finally took me back in to see my kitchen appliances melted into blackened Daliesque shapes, everything covered in grey dust, sat me down and gave me tea and talked. Was the fire my fault or was it a faulty oven? Probably both, but they made sure I knew what to do next. Of course they don't just do fires. I have been once rescued before when heavily pregnant and stuck in a lift on the 17th floor of a tower block. Again they made sure everything was all right; that the panic stopped. It didn't seem like counselling, but their stories of cats up trees, old ladies locked in lavatories and chaps accidentally handcuffed to beds made me laugh as they gave me a lift to the pub in the fire engine. But that was before this brave new world where we can somehow have more health and safety with fewer people taking care of us. Some strange logic operates here because no one actually thinks we will have (in the jargon) fewer "major incidents". This means terror and more, it means flooding where the fire service is again indispensable. All predictions are of more extreme weather, not less. No one surely believes that in some of the high density areas in which some of these closures will happen that we will suddenly need less service, do they? In Hackney, for instance, which has a higher than average number of "major incidents", Kingsland Fire Station will close. So my sentimentality about the fire service is not just to do with the fact they have helped me and wear big hunky boots, it is because in a major city with high levels of student and social housing, we need to know they can reach us quickly. If London cuts its services, other cities will follow. Here we have it: the ultimate frontline service is subject to slash and burn though we can afford enormous amounts to bury Tory prime ministers or police a royal pageant. Public safety being thrown onto the bonfire of Borisconi's vanities? You know I'd say that's an emergency. Our editors' picks for the day's top news and commentary delivered to your inbox each morning. |