An inner-city (and a heart) bonfire

On the weekend I got out what I loosely call my “tool box” (there’s a few screw drivers in the bottom, underneath a tray of disintegrating teats to feed baby animals and other odds and ends) to assemble a fire pit. I bought it the other weekend (before this post by Ben, over which we are kindred spirits) and just had to drag out all the pieces and put it together. I went with a fire pit, because it gets windy up on our balcony and they are more enclosed. I love a good bonfire, and this is my city-apartment adaptation.

Then on Sunday I went out for a jog (and, great novelty, it wasn’t raining!) and as I chugged along under a large old tree I spied little twigs all over the ground and thought ‘hey, that would make good kindling’, now that I have fire potential and have to think about these things. So yesterday afternoon on the way home from work on my bike I stopped and gathered some up into my bike basket, then this morning as I was jogging I got some more (just as well it’s near my house, so I wasn’t going too far with a handful of sticks). I’m not too sure how my flatmate feels about me stacking twigs in the lounge-room, but I’m feeling very rustic.

I’m hoping it doesn’t rain this weekend, because I want to fire it up and toast marshmallows on my balcony.

And, just because it matches (hah!), here's a metaphorical bonfire from Laurel: