matticus
Guru
As a sometimes bothyist there are few sights more dispiriting, as you settle down in front of a fire of an evening after a long day in the remote hills, than the sight of company trudging in across the moor with the silhouette of a guitar case distinctive against the evening sky.
Several hours later:
"..and this one's a wee dirge I composed in memory of my dear old mam.."
I would have thought the key word in your predicament is "FIRE".