By Charlotte Phelps
THERE is a baseline of things we expect in a relationship – respect, mutual attraction and, of course, a faux-rustic stove fuelled by little pre-chopped logs.
A wood-burning stove says a lot about a man, specifically: ‘I am incredibly middle-class and this Dik Geurts glorified metal box cost £4,000.’ That’s very attractive when I’m planning my future and factoring in private school fees and the chance to pack in my job and write my bullshit novel.
Being at one with the elemental forces of fire and nature also implies a man is primitive and virile, but not too primitive and virile, like a builder. I’ve seen the ones working on Cassie’s extension, and let’s just say evolution has not been kind to them.
Perhaps most importantly, a wood-burning stove shows taste. Not good taste, more a sheep-like devotion to predictable middle-class status symbols. But if that’s what it takes to impress the bitches I went to school with, I’m happy to be front of the herd.
But, I hear you say, what about the recent bad publicity? Well, yes, these stoves cause horrendous air pollution. But you have to be realistic about the environment. I recycle everything that doesn’t need washing out, and that gives me a clean slate to go on holiday to Crete as much as I like.
I’m more concerned about particulates entering your lungs, liver and brain. It’s every mother’s worst nightmare – having thick children. But with a private tutor to make them more intelligent we’ll probably barely notice a few missing brain cells. Certainly not worth giving up such a homely fire for.
Yes, I see my romantic future as inextricably bound up with wood-burning stoves. I’m currently seeing a solicitor called Dan, but frankly I’d dump him like that for a merchant banker with a better stove. It sounds harsh, but the heart wants what it wants.
Who knows where this magical journey of love will take me? Hopefully to meeting ‘the one’, who not only has a wood-burning stove but is also receptive to the idea of getting an Aga.
