Mr Hello knows I love a good fire. I adore this time of the year, when now that the clocks have changed, we have lovely longer evenings before the dreaded darkness sets in.
My idea of the perfect fire, however, involves sitting in the garden chair with a glass of wine, occasionally throwing a log in the chiminea.
Mr H’s idea of the perfect fire, is getting the incinerator out and ploughing his way through the vast pile of logs we’ve accumulated since cutting down a few trees in our garden.
This mismatch of expectations has long been a source of discontent between us, and the odd teary strop thrown on *ahem* somebody’s behalf. Does it make me a crim to not want to spend every evening doing something to improve the house? No. No it does not.
However, we appear to have reached a perfect compromise. Mr H runs around like a loon, brandishing loppers and waving dry branches around, and I sit down in the garden seat with a glass of wine and watch. And throw the odd log in the incinerator.