I can rebuild a motorcycle, rewire a boat, build a house, but apparently I cannot warm my home without setting myself on fire.

The landlady came over with her son today to turn on my heaters. Clunky beige gas affairs that admittedly had me a little squeamish since occupancy. The son turned on the kitchen one with little ado, and we discussed at length which of the two heaters, positioned within two feet of each other, one in each room, would be better. As the kitchen one heats more quickly with less noxious scents it’s first choice. Unfortunately, while the living room version starts with a little push button, the kitchen model requires a match.

Perhaps we laughed a bit too much, the crazy landlady and I, over our amusing mimed conversations, perhaps I should have watched more carefully, or trusted a bit less. The son explained the procedure, in English, and I knelt down in my grey fleece bathrobe and fuzzy slippers determined to learn. We had a bit of a giggle the first time when I didn’t know to hold down the gas knob after lighting and it went immediately out. So, turn on the gas, light the match, hand back on the knob, stick my other hand into the bottom and

whoosh, all the gas flowing while I’d lit the match ignited in a puff of orange, vanishing instantly as my left hand came off the knob with the realization that I’d just set my right hand on fire.

“Well, that wasn’t right. I just set myself on fire,” I observed while running said hand under cold water at the sink, laughing over the complete absurdity that is occasionally me. The second time I do something, no problem, but bloody hell the first time I’m a hawaiian building an igloo.

Upon reflection, I should probably not have continuously depressed the gas flow button while dicking around with the match. Upon further reflection, the landlady’s son probably could have pointed that part out to me before I burned all the little blonde hairs off my hand, though it was later revealed to me that hungarian men on the whole prefer their women hairless. I suppose that’s one way to go about it.

The landlady kept smelling my hand, and resolutely refused to let me near the heater again. I did try to convince her; I’m not fond of giving up and, lesson learned, I’m pretty sure I could get the pesky thing started this time. Unfortunately it will have to wait, for as much as I want to try I’m thinkin at this point I should probably not be allowed matches without adult supervision.

I set myself on fire today. Really, how often does one get to say that.

the heater.