It’s six o’clock Sunday morning and I still smell gas. I’ve phoned the Enbridge Emergency Hotline and was told that they’d be sending a man over to check it out immediately, but in the meantime I’m supposed to keep all the windows closed on the side where our metres are, the side where I can smell gas, and open windows on the opposite side. This is impossible in a semi-detached. So I open the garden door and wonder whose Sunday morning I’ve ruined and hope he gets here before the hillbillies spark up their smoker and we all blow up.
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