We’ve had more hiccups than a twelve-year-old drinking their weight in carbonated beverages. The most recent is a change in furniture storage location. Sounds less than awful, I know, but actually it’s driving me to envision an abundance of firelighters and a remote corner of a field at four in the morning.
Burning our furniture just isn’t an option though (and, even if it was, we’d obviously cram it all on the new log burner). It’s decent stuff don-cha-know and we were almost given it, so our conscience is forcing us to keep it for any future house we may require should it all go very Pete Tong; perhaps this is the most sensible thing we’re doing at the moment.
So, our current hurdle is to find a storage company that won’t rip us limb from limb for a metre-squared glorified-shed to put our *classy* almost-stolen furniture.
Off topic a tad, cause I know you’re all (yes, mum, I just mean you) skipping past the rubbish about limb-devouring storage companies to find out about our new log burner. Yes, yes we bloody did it and we don’t really know what the heck to do with it. It’s fashioned from a Calour gas bottle and is small and perfectly formed (like me o’course…). We even think our new pastel blue whistling kettle might work on it. How marvellous…
Before we grab our little tin mugs and rustle up a brew though, I’ve got to find the least savage glorified-shed renter. Wish me luck.