There are certain activities in a household that has a solid fuel fire
that require a risk assessment.
Wood chopping is one of them.
The assessment was completed. It was reviewed. Several recommendations were made.
The recommendations were ignored.Because here's the thing about gremlins and tiny axes and other assorted shiny sharp things — you can either spend your energy failing to prevent the inevitable, or you can quietly redirect it toward something useful and let them think they're getting away with something spectacular.Being the type to follow the path of least resistance, I of course chose the latter.The woodshed has never been so well stocked.They have no idea. No clue. And I'm stood here watching with a lovely hot brew and watching winter prep getting done without feeling it in my back.
I'm smug.
They're too busy with the tiny knives to notice the firewood situation.
Their glee is genuine and excessive and GLORIOUS.
The chaos is ...relatively contained.
The logs are split with surprising precision for creatures who are technically just throwing knives at stuff. They haven't even broken the window yet so that's a nice bonus.Nobody has told them.
Nobody is going to tell them. *looks sternly right at you*
Not today.
Not ever.
Happy National Axe Throwing Day.
The fire marshal is still abroad. This is unrelated.