Right now, I would give my metaphorical left nut for a fire. A roaring, crackling fire that smells amazing against which I can roast my ass. I mean, it's bitterly cold out. The snow is lightly falling, I am full of baked pancake, and I have work I don't want to do. And a fire would be inspiration to sip a warm beverage and pound through some reading, or even better, just loaf, wrapped in a blanket watching TV.
But since I don't have access to fire (the not pyromaniac kind), I will do some ironing in my sauna-like bathroom and read more plays.
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