H was tidying up her bedroom. A total eclipse must have aligned with a leap year and pigs were mysteriously sailing past the attic windows. She decided that it would be romantic to burn her old love letters. She'd read about people doing this in novels. Of course, the writers of these novels had obviously failed to mention that if you choose to burn them in a bucket, it should be metal, not plastic. It wasn't quite so romantic when my favourite bucket (I don't get out much) started to melt.