The latest one brought a meagre amount on the back of his truck, each log weighed about five kilos, such was the water content, I thought about asking him if he wanted his eighty quid dry and then running it under the tap for a minute, but my courage deserted me.
Now each evening I am reduced to kneeling before the fire, as though paying it homage, trying to get some life into it with a set of bellows, this is called a blow job in our vulgar family parlance. The room is filled with smoke and ash, the dog's eyes follow the wisps of smoke as they rise toward the ceiling, Elaine's follow the clouds of ash descending toward her polished surfaces and I utter obscenities about the firewood selling profession.
I am proposing some regulation of this cynical industry along the lines of the egg industry, but in reverse, logs should be classified as follows:
Organic: Felled so recently they are virtually alive
Free Range: Felled some time ago but allowed to roam freely outside. (I think this is the stuff we've been buying)
Barn: Stored in a barn
Cage: Kiln dried to dessication.
Failing the above I will now buy wood in the spring and store it in the garage, Maybe I will leave the eighty quid outside for a few weeks before my delivery.
No actual boating recently but we have used Melissa as a base while visiting my mother in hospital in Leicester, One day we walked from Crick to Ashby St Ledger which is famous as the location used for the formulation of the gunpowder plot. Most villages have some eyesore, blot-on-the-landscape or skankiness, but not so Ashby St Ledgers, it is absolutely pristine, not a whiff of any skankiness just the aroma of dry wood burning.
We also took a stroll to Watford locks....