Landlord sandwich

I'm all about simultaneity. This morning, upon noticing a frigid element in the house, I notified my landlord of the situation via e-mail, popped some bacon onto the stove, shoved a foil-wrapped baguette into the toaster oven, and headed to the cellar to check on my laundry. I put 15 minutes on the dryer and peeked at the boiler. Tapping on the well-designed pop-out drawer produced a control panel with rubber buttons, an LED display, and a booklet. I turned to the trouble-shooting section and my phone chirped. That's one quick landlord. A trouble-shooting discussion ensued and I said, at least now I know what the fuck error message H7 means! Then I returned to the kitchen only to find, not bacon, but cinder chips. When the hallway smoke alarm burst into hissy-fit mode, said landlord conversation abruptly ended and I climbed onto a chair to disengage the shrieking brat device. All things calm, I plunked my leftover Tortilla wedges into the bacon grease and resumed sandwich construction. When the boiler man shows up, I will shadow him and get this place toasty before Birdie comes home from NJ. Peace