I had the fire kindling dream again. The one where either Graham or myself sets a match to the kindling on a hearth, bringing fire to a house that’d sat cold and forlorn for a while.
Not a great while, for it wasn’t dilapidated. Just cold.
And, later, whether in the same dream or some other dalliance I do not know, I dreamt we were enjoying hot buttered scones fresh from the gradell, washed down with fresh-brewed tea from an iron kettle.