The fucker I'm eating now nearly burned down the flat.
I pre-heated the oven, put in the pizza, then settled down to read my flist. Anyone guess my mistake yet? No? I proceeded to read for about five minutes when I noticed the amount of smoke in the room. Far more than normal, even for one of Satan's Demon-Breads. Indeed, the room was fair fogged with smoke. So I went for a look-see, and saw that the baking trays in the bottom of the oven (There it is! Hallmark of my cretinity!) still had a fair amount of fat in them from whenever they were last used.
Liquid fat. That was on fire.
I did the only thing that came to mind, and panicked. In doing so, I at least remembered to turn off the oven, throw open the window on the other side of the fucking living room, turn on the pissant little extractor by the oven, and then (with oven gloves over nose and mouth so I could breathe) run like buggery for the door. After a panicked phone call to gominokouhai I slammed the front door open, quickly followed by the front and back doors to my block. And explained myself to the succession of little old ladies who stuck their heads into the stair because they could smell burning.
Half an hour later, smoke had stopped pouring out of the flat. The pizza was still in the oven, sitting there all fucking smug. Cooked to bloody perfection, it was. I did the only thing I could think of in the situation, and ate it.
Well, wouldn't you? I wasn't going to let the bastard thing away with anything at that point.
: Honestly. I was not distracted because of looking at porn or anything. If I were, I'd have a better excuse.
: Damn basement flats
: It's true. Panicking makes you forget to do the obvious things that aren't staring you in the face.