Withdrawal symptoms

Sheesh! I haven't been able to post for... one whole day. How did you cope? I know I hardly did.
All that because there's a new new-girl. If you don't know, I'm leaving my job in a couple weeks, give or take... a couple weeks. So somebody new is taking over. Most of my time, that's what she's taking over.
Anyway. I have a bit of time now, so let's use it, shall we?

To be honest, there wasn't much to be blogging home about yesterday*, until the moment I finally decided I'd had enough and was calling it a day. Packed my stuff, said goodbye to everyone, opened the door to my evening of freedom. Stopped dead.
Smoke. Smell of burning.
Shit. I'm going to die in the workplace, a workplace I intend to leave soon, and I'm not even married.
Close the door with me still on the inside of it. Tell everyone in the office there might be a little bit of a fire.
Cue a little bit of emotion. No tears, no panic, mind. Just "Ooh, shall we call the firemen, then?" with much trepidation and quavering.
Well. I smelled the fire. It's only natural that I should call the firemen, no?
So I do. Dial the much-fantasised-about 18. Listen to the disc (a disc! you call the firemen because you're about to die single and they play a disc!) and get through to a very helpful guy. Tell him what's what. They're on their way. Yay! (oh come on, there are a few lives at stake here, it's not all about men in uniforms. Hmmm.)
We open the door again, just to check that the building hasn't turned into The towering inferno yet.
There is a cigarette. Smouldering in an ashtray. That just might be the point of origin. Of the smoke.
Shit. Again.
So I call again. Because we can't be sure. They're on their way anyway, just to check. They. Are on. Their way. Three trucks, full of hunky Paris firemen.
But now I'm feeling guilty. There are three of us smokers in the office. That cigarette might well be mine. So really there's no pleasure watching them mill around. Just the guilt.
Shit.

* That's a crock if I ever heard one.
First, I took a tumble down a flight of stairs. Calm down, woman! I'm still alive.
Then, we got caught in the second tropical rain-storm in Paris in a week, and we ran like you'd have been proud of. Yes, that sentence displays a striking lack of grammar, but hey, when you can boast a mixed-gender, all white, and rainy remake of "Bad Boys", do you care about grammar? I didn't think so.
Third, my niece called me and told me she loved me. No, not in so many words. What she said was "Yay! Mum says we're spending a week's holiday in Paris with you in August! I get to go to EuroDisney again!" But I understood the sentiment without her having to actually say it because she's modest that way.