I lived here for a month already and I finally decided to use my stove.
Yes, I know that’s very “bachelor” of me. However, I live in a place where a decent-sized meal in a restaurant costs the equivilent of three bucks. If it’s a choice between either being served a good meal without having to clean up afterwards or saving a few dollars, I’ll happily spend the money.
Today was different. I wanted a cup of coffee, but it was pouring rain and didn’t feel like making the one block schlep to the coffee shop. I had a box of instant handy, so I got out my kettle and put it on the stove. And there, my friends, I discovered the horrible truth.
My stove has a gasline. Not just any gasline, but a gasline that I have to turn on and off seperately from the stove. I turn one knob and the gas turns on. Then I turn on the stove and it sparks – lighting the gas on fire.
I’ve never had to contend with this. I’m convinced that one day I’m going to forget to turn the line off, and gas will slowly fill my apartment and spill out into the hallway. Then some passer-by will innocently light a cigarette and blow this entire office-tel into a blazing inferno of fiery death.
Did I mention that I can’t smell?
I don’t think I’ll be using the stove very often.