“Enough hair of the dog to make myself an entire rug”

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I have a gas fireplace in my room. May not sound like a big deal to you, but when you live on the ground floor of a flimsy, Victorian terrace in Norwich, and it’s February and the heating isn’t working downstairs again…well. It’s essentially the most wonderful thing in the world.

My main lightbulb has blown out, so I’m relying on a pink Ikea desk lamp to keep me out of the dark. The fire helps too, obviously. Its flames make the whole room flicker, in a subtle, lovely way.

The flames makes me think of prehistoric art on cave walls, and the Disneyland Pirates of the Caribbean ride.
It’s a strange feeling when something calls to the most primeval part of the brain, and nothing does it quite like fire. It’s one of the few things that defines man.

Something about this time of year makes me devolve. I’m like a chick in an incubator, or maybe one better, I’m like an egg. All I want is to be wrapped up warm and soft. Not hungry or cold or confused.

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