Flames

Rian has started a fire on the hearth. At 3pm, on a June afternoon. June! What a land the North is. Where Rian grew up one was always warm enough, even in the very middle of June gloom.

I remember, as a child, stretching across the baked earth under blue sky and simply dozing. Warm, content. WARM. Nowadays, Rian is rarely warm enough, although the Push A Button fireplace helps. My fingers are often blue tipped.

The mortar is in. Twas like frosting a cake, one supposes. Although when Rian frosts a cake, the bread sticks to the chocolated knife and all comes pulling a part in a horrifying disaster. One shall hope the tiles fare a ttch better. The fumes from the 'concrete' made Rian float. Outside the tiny bathroom window it was raining, hard. The black and white tiles wavered.

Rian cannot wait until I can start on the walls.