A good while ago we acquired a gas barbecue from Carole’s dad.
We haven’t used it. For whatever reason, primarily the fact that the last thing you want to do is be cooking food outside while a group of feral children bounce up and down on a knackered trampoline in the neighbouring garden, it just never got a chance to be used in anger.
What it did do, though, was act as a surface in the shed. And where there is a surface there is crap and clutter.
So we’ve decided to get rid of it.
In order to make that easier, I spent a decent amount of time, sitting on the patio swearing at rusty screws, and fighting with sticky nuts. As I took the thing apart, though, it became increasingly clear that if we had have used the barbecue, we would probably have died in some sort of gas barbecue-based explosion.
Presumably not when we got it. But time has not been kind to it. The gas hose had more or less perished in places. You can just imagine the fun of lighting a barbecue, only for the hose to spring a leak – or several – and then just blast jets of fire across the garden. All mere feet away from a gas bottle which is, to all intents and purposes, a bomb waiting to happen.
I’m glad we haven’t, while it’s been hot, thought “hey, let’s fire up the old barbie and cook ourselves some meat!”
Although if we’d had, three hours immediately after getting the bloody thing out would have been spent removing the spiders from the grill.
And imagine how annoying it would have been having done all that, and made it – probably – at least reasonably safe to prepare food on – for it just to have blown up because of a perished hose.
Or the burner’s support unit which appeared to have rusted through and was sort of flapping about in what I would imagine any sort of safety checker would deem to be “a dangerous way”
We dodged a flaming bullet there, I think.
It’s now taken apart, in its entirety, and stuffed in a box to go to the tip.
We now have quite a lot of space in the shed.
Not that Carole will be wanting to use any of that space… because there are an awful lot of feathers strewn about the place.
I think our shed has been used as some sort of kill room.
I assume it’s the neighbourhood cats, and not a den of a serial killer in training. Although given the calibre of child around these parts, that wouldn’t surprise me too much…