Last leg for the logs: Not the last logs ever, we've still a stack laid out in the weather like sleeping Chinese warriors. This is probably the last log fire of the season (not that seasons are very distinctive around here) until the next semi-pseudo ice age dawns, heralded with the distant splintering of some gleaming, silver blue icicles on the frozen timbers of the fossilized true cross buried in perma snow close to Glenrothes. In the distance wolves howl and the moon slowly sinks in a pale sky. All very badly imagined of course.
The reality is sooty dust and black fingernails as I clean out the slowly cooling iron beast and then arrange the summer fairy lights into it's metal belly for the purpose of it's ritual humiliation. I understand that logs are a problem for various wild and accurate reasons; health, safety and the end of the world etc. but here in the remote north west arse end of Edinburghshire we claim the use of any economical warmth we can summon up including cheap alcohol and oven chips. That sacred right is protected somewhere within the small print of the Declaration of Arbroath I do believe. However I could be completely wrong.
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