If there is such a thing as an olfactory orgasm, then I’ve had three of them already today. Those people should not be allowed to cook the sweet waffles in public. Such activities should be reserved for private quarters, in select company. If they are not more careful with their aromerotica, I am liable to become loud and unruly in Victor Hugo square.
In home news, Mrs. G. has been beaming brightly at me ever since I said I was moving out. There has been a definite increase in the friendly chats, now that she knows an end is in sight. No more for her, the unruly Irish lass who is in bed by 10:30 every night. Or wantonly doing crosswords at the kitchen table. (She doesn’t know about the antics in Victor Hugo square). I was recently given instruction on how to use a kettle properly, as she sagely advised that electricity and water do not mix. The good people of Braun beg to differ, I dare say. It’s a KETTLE, Mrs G. That is its sole purpose in life. But Mrs. G does not trust kettles -no no. Not quite as much as she doesn’t trust Irish psychologists, but they are under suspicion nonetheless. They might plastic up her insides, apparently, and she insists on boiling the water for her morning coffee in a manky limey saucepan that she clearly salvaged during World War II. Even so, her morning coffee is another torment to my olfactory senses, as she gets to drink the nice filter coffee, while I am only allowed access to Nescafé’s finest. I am enacting slow vengeance by misaligning the spoons in the cutlery drawer. No you have not read incorrectly -they are aligned. Like soldiers, at the culinary front.
Now you know what I’m dealing with.