PROUD day. I’ve had a stack of thorny bushes, pointy sticks and lacerating branches as big as a truck in my backyard, just waiting to ignite itself in bush fire season. After a few tentative forays into pissweak bonfires, today I vow: I’m going to finish this if it kills me.
Then I wonder if these will be the last fortuitous words the emergency services read in my iPhone Notes application.
Anyway, the tools: Work gloves, saw, twine, a hose with holes in it, cowboy boots for jumping on rogue flames.
I’ve got about six different kinds of dead tree here, and I get to know which ones like being burned which way. After the first hour, I stop watching the fire out of the corner of my eye like it’s holding a gun on me, and just feed the thing.
Three hours later I chuck the straggler branches on and truss up the last logs to stuff in the shed for another time. Or perhaps I’ll just never open that shed again. Also, sorry about all that green stuff at the end, Castlemaine.
Got wood.
Keeper? My arms looks like they’ve been through a cheese-grater, but needing to eat a horse is a good feeling.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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