The First Fire

We had our first fire on Saturday night.

We were intending to go out and celebrate, but instead we stared at the fire in wonder. Never mind that it was a warm evening: our flat hasn’t warmed up since last winter, so we gazed at the fire like proud parents and hugged each other with joy.

I will take a picture when things calm down so you can see it in all its full glory.

Later that evening we felt we should ring my mother as she’s paying for it, dear of her. By this time Himself had consumed a fair bit of wine and was full of liquid bonhomie.

When he heard that she was intending to come down on Thursday to see an exhibition at Truro Museum, he grabbed the phone and said, “But you must come and stay the night, Penny.”

She was delighted and said that would be lovely.

It wasn’t until the next morning, in the cruel and sober daylight that he realised he’s got a lot to do in the living room to make the shelf he’s intending to cover what had been the large hole in the chimney breast.

So he rushed off in a panic to buy timber, came back and made the framework (which looks rather splendid, or will do when it’s finished) and departed to go to listen to the jazz. In his wake, the living room was covered in sawdust, with the workbench up, several saws, his toolbox and endless screws and drills covering every available surface.

I waited until he came home to say that I hadn’t liked to touch anything because I presumed he was in the middle of things. I’m not sure that he caught the irony.

What it is to live with a creative genius. But later, I heard the hum of the hoover, and Mollie’s answering bark.

What it is to live with a creative genius who can hoover.