The Fire is Lit

We have plummetted into winter, and very wet it is too. Driving Eileen to the airport was a sightless, white-knuckle white-out ride, cheered by our smugness at swinging into Nordstrom's and buying her a darling reversible bronze/black raincoat with Issey Miyake-like pleated hood, sister to mine which I had lent her.

It is dawning on me too that by giving Stefan his own bathroom, I also get a bathroom more or less my own. I can keep the shower at my height and setting! I can fiddly-fold all towels and textiles! I don't have to be so sneaky about my L'Ombre dans L'Eau soap, last cake, alas.

It has been unnatural being so tidy and organised the last few days. Of course I cleaned up before Eileen came and generated no sawdust while she was here, but just keeping on top of things (and maybe having another woman around) created such a pleasant feeling of order and harmony that I relaxed and enjoyed it. I can't get more wood while the weather is tanking down as it is, so maybe we shall stay relatively civilised until next week and live like normal people, not like out-of-control Extreme Makeover.