Ever since getting home my house has proved to be nothing short of a nightmare. It’s almost as though it’s getting back at me for leaving it on its own for six weeks by throwing a hissy fit and breaking down all over the place.
First we had the fire, which ruined the kitchen, destroyed several appliances and burnt the blinds. Then instead of washing clothes the washing machine just let them sit in a bit of water for a while. Then the shower unit fell off the wall and the toilet seat cracked. And after waiting quite a while for the washing machine to be replaced we ended up with two of the buggers as the deliverymen decided it would actually look nicer in our living room.
Then just as I was waiting for the bookshelves to fall off the walls, a family of rats to move into the kitchen and for the TV to get stuck on Channel 5 the boiler packed in.
At first it seemed there was nothing more afoot than a distinguished pilot light to blame and I went through all the logical solutions I could think of to try and get it working. All this involved was me ringing my dad and pressing a couple of buttons. Neither of which brought it back to life.
So the gasman was duly called out and within ten seconds of looking at the rust covered poor-mans Battlestar Galactica space station he asked me whether I had a carbon monoxide detector. When I replied to the negative he immediately said ‘Get One’. The manner in which he said this scared me slightly.
So the following Monday I spent forty quid at the shop down the road that seems to sell everything and took it home. After battling for some time to cut through the stiff plastic packaging I undid the battery case and popped the duracells into the back of the device before a sudden high-pitched scream made me recoil away from the boiler and out towards my balcony.
After regaining my sense of balance I figured I must have pressed the wrong button or something and once the detector had ceased its deafening din I ventured back into the kitchen. But no sooner had I come within a couple of feet of the boiler the detector started going crazy once more and I was forced to bid another hasty retreat.
Another call to my dad ensued followed by one to the gasman who was round within an hour. He took one look at the boiler and told me in no uncertain terms that it should never be used again. Carbon Monoxide was spilling out of the contraption and being blown throughout the house. It seems the gasman saved my life.
All of which began a round of finger pointing that ended up being directed squarely in the faces of my landlords. But in fairness to them they realised the seriousness of the situation and reacted in the same manner as they had after the fire. So we’re now waiting for a completely new central heating system to be installed which will mean our entire house is out of bounds in much the same way as the kitchen was after the fire.
But it’ll be worth it in the end as the kitchen is now completely decorated and back to how it was before I left for the Caribbean. However with a nod to the blaze I kept our clock, which not only managed to survive the blaze but also kept on ticking away. As has been noted it also now resembles something out of a Picasso painting.
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