A few months back, we installed a firebox thing.
This was done for purely economic reasons, but has also proved to be quite efficacious for my mental health. Belting shit with an axe is very therapeutic.
I also love camping and hunting and all that feral jungle bullshit. I always have. So I know some things in that regard.
My wife, just so there is some context, feels that camping can only occur if the word “Hilton” appears in etched steel above a portico where said camping is to take place.
And I love her for it. I go camping and shooting, she does not. Occasionally, I take her to a nice hotel, etc. This makes us both happy.
Anyway, our firebox and my wife have reached a crossroads.
“I need to show you how to light a fire in there,” I said to her.
“Are you going away?”
“I may be. So I need you to know how to start a fire in the fire-box. Winter is coming.”
“I put wood in it, pour petrol on it, throw a match in there.”
“Yes, that would kind of work, but a fire is built, like a house. Those fire-starters make it easy. You put two of them in, you put some kindling on top of them, you light them, you then add some smaller pieces of wood, when they’re burning you add some bigger pieces, and when it’s all blazing cheerily, you add the big pieces.”
“Go fuck yourself, scout-cunt. What the fuck is all that bull-shit? I’ll just use the air-con.”
I love her so much.
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