As the cooler nights approach, Clement drove Liam to a local timber merchant to buy the winter logs for our open fire. It wasn’t entirely an act of neighbourly altruism since Clement lusts after the log man, a ruddy rugged chap with bulging biceps and a chest like a Turkish wrestler. The log man delivered and neatly stacked the consignment. Clement flirtatiously supervised lingering a little too close to imbibe the intoxicating blend of testosterone and sweat. I kept the smelling salts handy. Afterwards Clement convalesced in a darkened room for an hour or two. I can’t imagine what he was doing.