I was fitting a Morso stove, a Morso Badger stove to be precise. In Denbigh, in an old school house, a musty place with lots of books and strange owners.
Our little metal heating appliance had stayed in its box since our arrival, some two and a half days earlier. MORSO Stoves, said the box proudly, PURVEYORS TO DANISH ROYALTY. Best not expose it too early I had thought on our arrival, lest its aristocratic feelings be disturbed by our rough banter and sooty faces. Somebody’s bound to spill something on it, or put the glass through whilst manhandling the step ladder or chimney rods. Assault by chimney rod had actually happened to a Morso 04 the previous year but that’s another story, hence another reason for all Morso stoves to be confined to crates until the very last minute.
Anyway, all went well: fireplace exposed, slate hearth down, bricks pointed with the liner having slid easily through the pot and down the chimney.