A brief history of arguing with the beloved about fire:
Scene: Winter, a remote farmhouse, in front of a roaring log fire
me – (feeling sparkly eyed, romantic and perhaps a little drunk on Malibu Chills, snuggling into the beloved) Isn’t this lovely?
the beloved – (shifting uncomfortably) Um. I think I might just go to bed.
me – (oblivious) We could just stay here? (raising eyebrows suggestively, or trying to anyway)
the beloved – No. I’m going to bed. I really don’t like fires.
me – Oh, you ‘don’t like fires’… You just want to ‘go to bed’… (oblivious, see?)
the beloved – No. Really. I don’t like fires. The smell, the smoke, the being too hot, then walking three feet away and being too cold. Now I just feel dirty. And a bit itchy.
me – Oh.
Scene: Inspecting our soon-to-be new house.
me – Oooooh, a fire place!
the beloved – Obviously we would never use this fire place. Do you think we could put a TV there?
me – (muttering ‘over my dead body’ as I scuttle into the next room)
Scene: House, evening, late autumn, freezing, ducted heating has just broken down.
me – (GLEEFUL!) Perhaps we could light the fire?
the beloved – (deep sigh of resignation)
Titch – We will light a big fire! At the shops!
me and the beloved – (?????)
Scene: In front of beautiful, warm, crackling fire in our lounge
the beloved – Now it’s lit I had this thought…
me – Yes?
the beloved – You know how with balconies, you automatically want to throw things over the edge? The fire is just like that… I’m sitting here thinking how useful it is, that we can just toss things in there.
me – (?????)