Lighting Up

I knew I had another box of matches when I laid the fire and set about lighting it. The box on the hearth was empty, the last spill used the night before, but where was the spare, a pack full of long cook's matches? I searched everywhere, even in the fridge, but whoever had used them last, lighting candles for the Christmas table probably, had secreted them carefully away. The trouble is that I have no other means in this house of making fire. You don't get red heat in a Rayburn, and my induction hotplate isn't capable of making a flame either. I stomped around feeling increasingly cross, and decided there was nothing for it but to go out into the dark night and drive into Fram. Boots on, coat on, gloves on, I looked around the kitchen one last time and my eyes fell on the toaster. Hah! That would do the trick!

Think again. I used paper spill after paper spill - I counted seven when I finally cleared the mess away, and though they smouldered they wouldn't catch light. Once I was successful, and I rushed into the sitting room to get the fire going, but it went out before I got there. I don't like unhappy endings, and nothing was going to send me out when I had a working toaster. I finally managed it, triumphant at last. Having a fire in the woodburner is more than a treat on a winter's evening, it's a necessity, not only for the heat it gives out but for the lovely warm glow it generates. Earlier in the day I had hauled in a huge pile of logs in my new bag resting on the wheelbarrow. I never get tired of doing this however heavy the load as the payoff is so great. And I'm watching The Bridge in catch-up mode, four episodes down, six to go. It's the first time I've seen it and I'm hooked. Saga: has she ever got a tale to tell.