Maurice Picarda
Actually, might as well flounce.
I am in a holiday apartment in a mosquito sanctuary visited almost exclusively by Americans. The kitchen has a toaster, a coffee percolator, a bread maker, a primary and a secondary food mixer, a juicer, a blender, a mains-operated corkscrew (which really is the height of silliness) and then every piece of manually operated gadgetry one could possibly imagine, from garlic presses to mediaeval instruments designed to get lobsters to confess and then repent.
But there is no fucking kettle. And this has been the same in furnished holiday apartments the length and short breadth of the mosquito sanctuary. Americans, in need of a cup of tea, presumably boil water on stoves like venture scouts or survivalists. Why? Yanks of Urban, explain yourselves. And if you have not heard of kettles, does the idea of an electric water boiler with a spout appeal? Shall I send a container of them over to you so that we can make our fortunes?
But there is no fucking kettle. And this has been the same in furnished holiday apartments the length and short breadth of the mosquito sanctuary. Americans, in need of a cup of tea, presumably boil water on stoves like venture scouts or survivalists. Why? Yanks of Urban, explain yourselves. And if you have not heard of kettles, does the idea of an electric water boiler with a spout appeal? Shall I send a container of them over to you so that we can make our fortunes?