My microwave is sitting on top of my television.
The plug point behind my fridge, which ensures my fridge is kept cold and my microwave cooks, has decided to fucking die. There might've been a forage of sparks, sythesized by a large explosion and gasps from my lesbian neighbours. The scene, however, is based on pure assumption and I can only speculate.
I am too much of a wuss to stick my fingers in the plug hole/change the cables in the event I fry myself.
So, the microwave, so that the cable can reach another plug point, is sitting on the TV. Classy.
And my fridge, well, that's why I ate everything cold out of it last night. Now it's just a big white ornament in my kitchen.
Who has the time to organise an electrician? Not I.
I actually had to cook something in the oven last night. Have you ever? I haven't used my oven in 6 months, and I had to actually serve my Woolies meal up onto a platter, and pre-heat and wait, and wait and wait - what a bloody bother. God, how housewives do it, I just dunno.
So if you're a mate of mine, and you're coming round for dinner anytime soon, just be awrned that my lounge looks like a redneck's back garden. But while you wait for your cottage pie to warm up, you can watch Keeping Up With The Kardashian's at very close range.