The Gas Man Cometh....
I have always thought that fate had a sense of humour. As of yesterday, I’m sure of it. I’m not talking major issues, here. Not earthquakes or car crashes, nothing as far reaching as that. But small things. Unexpected things.
Now I freely admit I am not the world’s most enthusiastic housewife. In hot weather, I am delighted the sun tends to “iron” clothes on the line. Not at all worried that it does a better job of it than I do. I do vacuum, and dust, but I find it intensely annoying that the minute my back is turned I seem to have just as much cat and dog fur lying about as I did before I started. I really had meant to give my kitchen a good clean, especially my hob which had experienced a spill of tsumami proportions yesterday. As it had burnt on, I decided it would have to wait until I had got to the supermarket and purchased the correct, super efficient surface cleaner. After all, nobody was going to see it except me!
And that is where fate stepped in. Here in Spain, we have an inspection of our gas installation, at least in theory, every five years. Ours was so overdue (around 2 years late, as it turned out) I had forgotten all about it. I was just going to prepare lunch, and was in the process of dismembering a chicken leg for the Boys when the doorbell rang. The worktop was a combination of shredded vegetable peelings and chicken skin, with a soupcon of garlic waiting to be chopped. To add the finishing touch, the kitchen bin was overflowing to the extent that the lid wouldn’t close properly.
“Tell them to go away” Husband shouted. As he was watching t.v. wearing nothing but his underpants, this was hardly surprising. I answered the door anyway and found a pair of smiling Repsol men, waiting to do my gas revision. Oh, good. About time too! Alas, that was where things started to go wrong. Husband ducked for the bedroom, as a start. Good job, too. Last time, they only wanted to check our exterior gas bottle casita. This year – horror of horrors – they also needed to check the jets on my gas hob. I cringed as I looked at my worktops and the hob. Did they really need to check the jets? Apparently they did.
Not only did they dismantle my filthy hob to get at the jets, it turned out I needed new ones. I had wondered why my flames seemed far less efficient than they used to be, but as I daren’t clean around the jets in case I dislodge then, wondering was as far as I ever got. I did try and slink away while my hob was being renewed, but the nice Repsol man insisted I come and look, to show me he really was replacing them. And to add injury to insult, he cheerfully asked me for a cloth, and cleaned underneath the burners for me.
Husband said it was all my fault. As if I knew they were going to turn up 2 years late! It was alright for him, all he had to do was sign endless documents. The only thing I can say is that with a bit of luck I might have a new cooker before they come back and embarrass me again, and if I haven’t Husband is answering the door. I’m going to tell them I’m the new cleaner and I know nothing ….