In my apartment in the living room, on a stony black table, I rented also a service plate. On it four glasses, two tall and skinny, two plump, white cups suitable for two saucers and a small porcelain bin with tea bags, instant coffee and sugar, which I am not used to touch. Just the water boiler, a gift for my tea addiction. The water boiler´s tankard is leaking since we have been introduced, after it did the job. Leaving the service plate flooded, permanently. And the bottom part of the boiler, the electrified heat, is floating on, like a broken island, in its center a golden socket, beneath permanently connected with the plug socket by a more short and stiff cable. So guess the base is more sipping at the shore of the plate than floating. Anyway. Are this the picture you find in books like “You don´t have to die in your own household” or “How to avoid a killing home”? Maxime put me into this danger zone. Or he put it more on me. He was freaking out in his charming and a little bit maybe french way. Arrogant but not spitting. “You can kill yourself!” Dramatic. But there was it now, the danger zone. It never was before. It was just a medium nice looking but useful table. Everyone needs a table right. Before it was a table zone, comfortable and conservative. I look at the boiler, inspect the lame curve of the cable, in a distance, and I am not sure if I wanna surrender. What is wrong in this world if you can not trust a water boiler, a WATER B-O-I-L-E-R anymore! When I put the kettle on, I don´t think about it, I stick to what I did since I am here. – Made in China. And I trust and keep the boiler sinking!
