Seasoned

I arrive at the farm in the evening, and unpack the car. The temperature inside the house reads 17 degrees C. 16.4 on the other thermometer. In the past, a mere year ago, this would have had me rushing off to the woodpile and starting a fire.

Not so today. It's not exactly balmy warm, but the fire won't make much difference once I am in bed under my superwarm doona. And in the morning the fire will be out anyway, so really, why bother.