We have reached the end of our winter wood provisions. If you can believe that.
I am freezing.
My husband tells me that 68 degrees Fahrenheit is temperate for most people, even if it is rainy and raw.
I want climate control. I want warmth. I want fire. I want a crazy caveman to cater to my whims. Give me fire.
“Let’s burn the furniture,” I begged my husband this evening before bed.
“It’s quite comfortable in here,” he replied.
Have I mentioned that he’s a liar?