Wood burners can make you boring, but there's something satisfying isn't there?

Wife had a log burner installed. We live in a Victorian house with lots of draughts. It gets cold inside in the winter and she'd sit there wrapped in blankets - the central heating would be full on, never got above 18 deg C. and it was costing us a fortune. I went around putting in insulation where I could, but heat just leaked out. This year we bit the bullet and spent a ton of money updating the house; new roof, even more insulation, radiator thermostatic valves, underfloor heating in places, double glazing where possible. But we also went for a single log burner.

Hmmm. With all the new measures in place, the house is much warmer in the first place, so the burner is a bit of a luxury now. It's also a novelty so we've been lighting it whenever possible. Fair enough so far, all normal. However, I've now strayed too far and have cemented my place as The World's Most Boring Man. How? Flu thermometer that's how. Went and bought one the other day. I now sit in front of the sodding fire adjusting the top vent near constantly so as to keep the fire within a narrow temperature range. If I have to move away, I call out the wife and kids to see what the temp is. They ignore me, quite rightly, but it stresses me out to find that the fire has cooled slightly or warmed towards the red zone.

I paid £18 for a thermometer that has ruined my life. Before I'd just bung wood in, and it was self regulating; the fire got hot, we'd leave the room and no more wood would go on the fire. If it died down, we'd put some wood on.

And the street nutter, KD, is no longer the street nutter. True we have Audi man down the road, but he's like the Sebbastian Vettel of street nuttership; nobody can touch him. Even the other nutters avoid him. But on Saturday I took second place. How? By sharpening an axe. On my front door step as people walked by. So mentally dulled through watching my flu temperature gauge, it seemed natural to sharpen my axe where the wood was. Out the front. Somebody call Social Services, quick.

And then there's wood and the finding of. For some reason I've decided that wood has to be free. It shall not be paid for, ever. So now all waking hours are spent looking for scraps of potential fire wood. Old stick used by a dog to chase? Mine I tell you, mine! Pallets? Mine, mine, mine! I've yet to put a bit of wood on my fire that is not pierced by dog bites, full of nail holes, or is thin and has been used to stir paint.

On the plus side you do use less fuel to heat the room, which means less work in finding and processing wood in the first place. At the moment that's brilliant. You see we only decided to get a wood burner relatively recently, so my stash of wood fuel is very small. In essence, each time I get the fire going it means I have to go and chop wood. That's a faff. 7pm, want a fire? You Dear Reader would merely go and get the wood that you chopped in July. I have to go outside, find some wood, chop and process it first. Faff central.

Really Dear Reader, you thought I was sad before, but now I am officially Mr Saddo. Please, can somebody buy me some slippers and bring me an Horlicks before beddy byes?