All is well. But this has gotta go in the blog!
After this most excellent photo from the wedding we went to in November- acceptable wedding etiquette, I would say, but generally not that early in the evening!
We had a good trip home from Dave’s folks’ place, (and what a wonderful Christmas!) and made it home with daylight to spare. Had the typical cunning plans as we parked- I need to rush in and pee, so I’ll get the central heating on, Dave can bring Henry in and then we’ll put the Christmas tree in the front garden before we unload the car and clutter up the lounge and hallway.
So, we were getting on with it- as we were bringing stuff (so much stuff!) in from the car, Henry was bringing out the hastily removed (and scant anyway, this year) decorations, and putting them back on the tree, in the front garden!
All good, but the central heating obstinately refused my gentle requests, (and has since been visited by a very good and persuasive man, never fear,) so naturally I stopped to light a fire in the fireplace. (It had obviously been off for a while, the place was 9 degrees C (48 F.)) Last match- uh, oh! I lit it ever so carefully, struck it away from myself in my best Scout-trained manner, then lit the ends of the firelog (you know the ones, from the supermarket- some awful compressed sawdust and chemicals I expect, so I don’t even compost the ashes, but so handy, and where do you get firewood around here?) and then leaned over to put the log carefully in the fireplace. The buggers do just go out sometimes. Perhaps it’s my technique.
Anyway, I was conscious that it was THE LAST MATCH, so I didn’t blow it out, just held it out to the side while I leaned over. Hmmmm, maybe this week-25 body leans different. Maybe this preggers brain is partly to blame.
Metal-rimmed glasses reflect firelight in funny ways. And perhaps there was some light bouncing off the insides of the lenses. I turned around, thinking, uh-oh, there’s fire somewhere behind me, and it was climbing up the side of my face. “Ooh,” I said to Henry, as I put it out with my hand, “Mummy’s hair is on fire.” (He talked about it a few times over the next half-hour or so, but seemed to have moved on by bedtime- old and new toys, plumber visiting, etc.)
Now, here’s the conundrum- no central heating, a fireplace and a piss-ant little electric heater, it’s 9 degrees in the flat and 6 outside, and the place smells of burnt hair. Do you open the windows?
Hell, yeah, burnt hair smells bad, man.
Seriously never felt a thing, though- didn’t burn me at all. And now I have a good excuse for that haircut I’ve been considering!