My flatmate nearly burnt the house down this evening. Normally I would be bothered and a little scared for my life, living with a pyromaniac, but as I am moving out on Saturday, I couldn’t care less.
I discovered the soon-to-be fire. I was in my bedroom when I smelt burning. Not living with any chefs, I thought somebody was just cooking, and dismissed the signs of danger drifting through my nasal cavity for poor culinary skills. It was later on that evening, when I went to cook my own dinner (Birds Eye chicken burgers and spicy wedges), that I noticed the pan on the stove, burnt black and heavily radiating.
Upon lifting the pan from the stove, the whole kitchen filled with smoke. The smoke alarm didn’t go off, a tad worrying, but I’ll probably be long gone when a serious fire does break out. I then plunged the pan into cold water, causing the smoke filled room to turn into a steam filled room.
The pan is now fucked – burnt black. Again, if it was my pan or I was staying long enough to use it , I would be rather pissed off, but I’m moving out on Saturday. Hahaha.
By the way, while all this was happening, my flatmate who originally put the pan on the stove, was chatting on the telephone – typical. And yes, before you ask, that particular housemate is a girl.
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