Ok I've had it with abortive ideas, exhaustion, writer's block, the lack of internet and perhaps sheer laziness. I type with renewed vigour and zest and will to complete this post and then retire in to my shell of the above mentioned for another 20 odd days before my conscience and other influences prod me on to a new post.
So we shifted to an apartment. Whee. Apart from my dad waking up screaming in cold claustrophobic sweats once or twice a week due to a previously mentioned issue, the transition from house to flat has been smooth with less hitches than Will Smith. It's nice, 12th floor, one less than the expensive drinking joint, overlooking a concrete jungle and a hyacinthed lake, with faint strains of bhangra and biriyani, not always mutually exclusive, occasionally wafting through the windows. But I love apartments. Life is so easy. Within minutes of shifting we had milk, water and newspaper delivered by some enterprising little man who for a tad extra offered to bring by flowers too. Valentine's notwithstanding I had to pass that offer.
So one day in this new abode, sleepy and disoriented due to some paradigm shift in my internal clock I was rudely woken up by a man claiming to have put in the internal gas line in the kitchen. He of course wanted to check and see if all was well and we weren't living in some gas chamber, so to speak. Here's my problem, the standard way to check for a leak is either by dabbing soapy water on the joints to look for bubbling, or in the absolute worst case scenario to do it inspired by a truffle hunting pig - smell. They do dope the cylinders with some sulphurous compound for that simple reason. Our intrepid little Darwin award contender proceeded to pull a matchbox out and light up under the pipe. 30 of the longest seconds in my life later he turns with a grin and proclaims all is well. I haven't slept since then...
So we shifted to an apartment. Whee. Apart from my dad waking up screaming in cold claustrophobic sweats once or twice a week due to a previously mentioned issue, the transition from house to flat has been smooth with less hitches than Will Smith. It's nice, 12th floor, one less than the expensive drinking joint, overlooking a concrete jungle and a hyacinthed lake, with faint strains of bhangra and biriyani, not always mutually exclusive, occasionally wafting through the windows. But I love apartments. Life is so easy. Within minutes of shifting we had milk, water and newspaper delivered by some enterprising little man who for a tad extra offered to bring by flowers too. Valentine's notwithstanding I had to pass that offer.
So one day in this new abode, sleepy and disoriented due to some paradigm shift in my internal clock I was rudely woken up by a man claiming to have put in the internal gas line in the kitchen. He of course wanted to check and see if all was well and we weren't living in some gas chamber, so to speak. Here's my problem, the standard way to check for a leak is either by dabbing soapy water on the joints to look for bubbling, or in the absolute worst case scenario to do it inspired by a truffle hunting pig - smell. They do dope the cylinders with some sulphurous compound for that simple reason. Our intrepid little Darwin award contender proceeded to pull a matchbox out and light up under the pipe. 30 of the longest seconds in my life later he turns with a grin and proclaims all is well. I haven't slept since then...
