I could not go to work this week, something like a flu. And Thursday around 6:00, my sister sends me an SMS “fire at Lubrizol”. I turn on the radio. Indeed, one of the most dangerous chemical factories in the region had already been burning for several hours. And nothing. No siren sounded before 7:30 to alert the population. Everyone could sleep quietly.
We caulked the house as well as we could and waited. Outside a strong hydrocarbon smell. Black dust on the floor. The oily traces here and there.
“It smells like death” as my son says.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau was good enough to help me express my distress and my feeling of helplessness.