After what seemed a colossally long day filled with twists, turns, and challenges, I found myself seated on the sofa that I had buffed the day before, wondering whether any of my actions had value. In terms of productivity, it was a good day. For that I was exhausted. Seated, watching the T.V – which was off by the way – I began to crave a burger.

After contemplating the validly of my next pursuit, I threw caution to the wind and set off in search of lighter fluid and coal. I was going native.

There come certain moments in a persons life where reflection and reason are a hindrance rather than a help. There was little time, and I needed to capture this impulse. Fire is much the same in its discipline. It lingers for the moment while its fuel exists, rapidly consuming with such vigour the materials beneath and around it. The conquest of a flame is so charming that we use it as a symbol for flushes of love, of anger, of passion. It was this burning that I felt, this flame that seemed to me lost as I sat on the sofa – whose covers I had made. This same flame that I needed to connect with.

Half an hour of activity later I found myself pouring lighter fluid on a heap of coal and smiling as the fires rose. I felt free in the warmth that the yellowish red glow gave. It surpassed the lingering heat as the cool evening breeze slowly hovered across our garden. My wife was probably laughing at her cave man – I didn’t care. This night I was going to have me a burger or three, two sausages, a bottle of super malt, and a glass of wine.


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