We rarely see the judgement behind the decision, the training behind the movement, the care behind the joke, or the person who comes back from a fatal incident, changes into dry uniform and prepares to answer thenext call.
Fellside Fire Station is not a place of easy heroics.
It is a place of work.
Difficult work. Skilled work. Human work.
And it deserves to be understood before it is judged.
Carlisle Gazette
Diary of a Journalist Who Thought He Was Fit – Five Things I Learned While Failing to Be Useful at a Fire Station
By Anthony John Hodgson
Before spending two weeks at Fellside Fire Station, I considered myself reasonably fit.
I run mountains. I own trail shoes that have seen things. I have used the phrase “elevation gain” in ordinary conversation and expectedpeople to remain friends with me afterwards.
Then Watch Manager Philippa Hart handed me a fire kit, and reality introduced itself.
Here are five things I learned.
1. A fire kit is heavier than pride.
It looks impressive on firefighters. It feels less impressive when you are wearing it in a yard, trying to appear calm while quietly renegotiating your relationship with gravity.
2. A hose has a personality.
Unfortunately, that personality is stubborn, unhelpful and deeply unimpressed by journalists.
3. A beard is not a personality, but losing one can still feel dramatic.
For breathing apparatus safety, I had to shave. The crew responded with compassion,sensitivity and repeated use of the word “babyface”.
4. Never move the biscuits.
This is not advice. It is law.
5. Firefighters are funnier than they look, kinder than they sound and much more patient than they claim.
They let me ask questions, get in the way, misunderstand equipment, underestimate the hose and briefly consider reorganising a kitchen that was apparently already operating according to ancient local custom.
I arrived thinking I was there to observe.
I left understanding that observation is only useful when you are prepared to be humbled by what you see.
And by hose.
Mostly by hose.
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Epilogue
AJ
Iam halfway toFellside with one of Tom’s lasagnes in the passenger footwell, a box of pastries on the back seat and a property brochure folded inside my jacket pocket like it has become legally attached to my ribs.
