The Stove

A bit of a problem with the wood burner today. Now it’s getting cold, we thought we’d investigate the Godin. It’s a bit of what sold the house, truth to tell. Monica walked into the salon (must stop calling it the sitting room) and fell in love with the stove. I must say, it’s rather a gorgeous thing, a sort of dark green, with a curlicues of cast iron on the front, clearly been well used but in tremendous condition.

Anyway, there was a load of wood left behind by the previous owners in the shed at the side. It seemed dry enough, a bit full of creepy crawlies, but okay by and large. So the two of us lugged in a stack of logs and piled them up beside the Godin. I do love the little plaque on the front that proclaims itself “Godin”. So French, I think. Monica’s not much of a hand at fire lighting, more of a chap’s thing really. So I found an old box in the shed, broke it up, laid a fire with some newspaper – last week’s copy of the Daily Telegraph just the thing – borrowed Monica’s lighter and hey presto, fire was going. I shut the door and waited for a blaze to start warming the place up. But, oh dear, a couple of minutes later and the room was heaving with smoke, thick black acrid stuff. We were coughing and choking and just had to throw open the doors, rather defeating the purpose of warming up the house.

Well, the old chap next door, he of the silent gestures, came running over, with a bundle under his arm. Would you believe it, he seemed to be a chimney sweep, just amazing that he lived next door. But that didn’t actually seem to be the case. He dropped the bundle, pointed to the smoke billowing out of the door and then picked up the brush thing, you know, one of the round brushes, gripped it both hands and waved it up and down with a huge grin on his face. “Bouché,” he gasped with laughter. Then he turned tail and went chortling off.

It took ages to get the chimney swept. I was covered in soot and all sorts of noxious muck, but finally poked out the last of the stuff and we got the stove going. The joys of country living, eh. Chimney sweeping, another string to my bow, as my old dad would have said.