Doing Logs

Having a fire is great and playing with logs is great - but only on a crisp Sunday afternoon. I am usually fine with barrowing a few loads around from the barn to the porch where we stack them nicely for use during the week, and occasionally I love splitting them - smacking at them with a blunt axe and wondering where it went when one half of the log pings off across the garden.

But last weekend I forgot and the porch is now empty, and it was getting cold and dark and the barn was slowly filling up with mice, spiders and the occasional monster. Then I have to procrastinate and fart about as the fire slowly turns to embers and the house gets colder as the bloody kids have left the doors open and I KNOW that no-one else is ever going to fetch them.

So finally, out I go in my skirt and wellies, stepping on toy trucks, tripping over skipping ropes and cursing that I still haven't put a bulb in that damned outside light. The barn is, of course, full of mice that have come in for the winter and I sing loudly before i get there to give them a fighting chance to just hide so that they don't have to dart out and make me squeal and run on the spot.

But now it is done - the fire is being resurected and I am nice and smug that it wasn't that bad after all... So, no need now to barrow logs around at the weekend when it's light, no need to bother with sorting the outside light and no need to phone a hypnotherepist to sort out my slight mouse issues - until tomorrow of course...