With Great Power There Must Also Come - - Great Responsibilty!

Before I had ever heard of the X-Men, I discovered Wolverine, in a Marvel Super Heroes Adventure Gamebook (which is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, but with added die-rolling, to make it even more hip). I read the tome, which I believe was entitled 'Night of the Wolverine', when I was about nine or ten years old, and for a long time after that I found the mutant they call Logan to be a character that I could relate to, and more so than almost any other superhero.

Now, I don't smoke cigars, wear sideburns or have 13-inch retractable metal claws, and neither did I when I was ten. Admittedly, I've never broken a bone (except possibly my nose), but it's unlikely that my skeleton is near-indestructible. What I share with Weapon X though, is my nose: as far back as I can remember, I've always had a potent sense of smell. I remember sorting through some old books once and recognising them not by their title, but their odour. As a child, I would find myself the only person in the room to be repelled by the awful stink of a person's sneeze (especially my older brother Tim's, whose reeked the most). But the times have been few and far between that my gift has been of any significant use. On one occasion in Norway, we took the youth out for a midnight game of capture the flag, and I found that I could successfully track and chase down those members of the opposing team who were more liberal in the application of their chosen fragrance. But while that may be useful in the context of a wide game, it has no long term repercussions. I have wondered if this talent of mine is little more than an interesting quirk. That is, until last weekend, when my nose saved a life.

It was noon on a grey October Saturday, and I was walking along Loughton Way to meet Tim. Unusually, I didn't have my headphones on, and so as I passed one of the semi-detached council houses that lined the long street, I heard the sound coming from an alarm inside. As I drew closer, I realised that the noise was in fact being made by two different smoke alarms. And then came the Wolverine-inspired moment my nose was made for: my head remaining static, I sniffed the air.

The smell of burning food was unmistakable, like burnt toast, which is not something to ordinarily be worried about. Two things concerned me though. I could smell the smoke all the way from the pavement, so it had to be more than just toast. And there on the doorstep sat three empty bottles of assorted alcoholic drinks. The alarms continued.

I rang the doorbell, and knocked on the door, with no response. So I dialled 999. Shortly two fire engines pulled up and I explained to the fire fighters what had happened, only with less detail and melodrama than I am using as I write here. They went around to the back of the house to find the kitchen door unlocked and, entering the smoky kitchen, found the cause of the alarm: an oven that had been left on all night. Actually, to be fair to the oven, the ultimate cause was staggering down the stairs, bleary-eyed and in great confusion at the sight of so many fire fighters in his house.

Leaving him to aerate his home for a good week or so, they came back out to me, grinning at his comedy gormlessness and no doubt grateful that the call-out wasn't for a more serious situation. I turned and headed over to Tim's car, which had now arrived, and allowed myself a smile. Without thanks or fanfare, without a uniform or a mysterious alias, I felt myself arrive. Every superhero has an origin story, and every origin story has a moment of truth, when the hero's abilities are first called upon. Perhaps this was mine, and if so, I had used my power with great responsibility.