It's a great spot. Warm and cozy no matter how cold it is, I can rest my coffee cup on the bricks and my coffee never goes cold and by about the second week of winter everything I need has migrated to within an arm's reach of my spot.
An arm's reach.
Therein lies the rub.
I am always overestimating my reach.
The day before yesterday I thought I could reach a piece of wood from the depths of the woodbox without so much as a shuffle in it's direction and out of my spot.
This was the result:
Cut on the aluminium lining of the woodbox. Not much of a war wound even I will admit. Pretty pathetic really. Except that every time I cook or drive or soap my hands it stings and reminds me how stupid I was. Ouch. Poor, poor me, right?
So I learnt my lesson and now get off my lazy butt to put more wood in the fire.
Or so you'd think, right?
Last night's attempt at judging 'arm's reach'
Why yes, that is a rather large burn on my forearm. And yes, it stings. And hurts. And worse, it looks bad which means people notice it and ask what happened and then I have to explain my laziness and stupidity. Which kind of hurts more than the cut or the burn.
It really doesn't pay to be lazy.