He's definitely back.
You have no idea of the joy I had when I could use my cooker. I skipped around the kitchen causing mini Earth tremours in the Scottish Borders (but don't tell anyone it was me), whilst the super duper polished table and chairs were still out of the way, and I made a roast dinner. It makes me smile because the girls called it a Sunday roast on a Wednesday.
Hubby came home and ate his tea like a man possessed. It was like he hadn't eaten - again. He had a couple of coffees and then went to inspect the handy work of the kitchen. He hummed and haa'd about the work, not happy with this, not happy with that and then decided that the cooker hadn't been put in the space properly, the gas man will never be allowed back in the house - that sort of thing.
Now it's my fault because after I'd walked the dog I said that I was tired and was thinking of going to bed. Bad move. It was now that he decided that he was going to move the cooker, and of course he would need my help (although "help" was not the word he used). The words used were "you are to come here, do as you're told, not speak, not back chat and not ask any "cue"uestions - you are there to follow my command", but to he used such a nice tone of voice - NOT. "You're a fat, lazy, ugly arsed individual who I can't stand and you will do as you're told" was my favourite I think, closely followed with "What have you done all day? You've done nothing. You've sat on your arse and slept. Blah, blah, blah".
Now there was a metal plate on the back of the cooker that I tried explaining (ignoring the "don't speak" instruction) would jam itself against the bench on pulling it out. Would he listen? No he would not. He pulled and contorted and pulled and then pulled some more until it was jammed so hard it wouldn't move either way. He had pulled it out sufficiently enough to climb onto the bench and slide behind the cooker so that he could push the cooker free. I'm trying to explain that he was ripping the lino and that because of it it was jamming it again. I explained (calmly but losing the will to live, and a bit teary because my lino was being ripped and I could see all sorts of issues going wrong) that the metal plate and the ripped lino had it well and truly wedged and that he was going to break the cooker if he continued. By now there was no reasoning with him. Sheer brute force now took over. He rived and strained and pulled and pushed, he had me under the cooker trying to remove the legs (imminent death if he dropped it). He got what he wanted and with the leg off, the cooker could be dropped and then lifted out (which I know sounds backwards, but it worked).
He'd been flailing about so much behind the cooker that he wasn't paying attention to what he was doing, and he didn't care. It wasn't until I pointed out that I thought that the gas pipe had moved that he paid it any attention. I couldn't smell gas but I could taste it, and then "super nose" noticed that he could smell gas. Now because I couldn't smell it I wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not so I got some fairy li"cue"uid and put a little bit of water into it and then painted it onto the pipe with a pastry brush (are you impressed with my inginuity?) and there it was, bubbles blowing like a bubbles were going out of fashion. By now, any Canary would have dropped of it's Miner's hat, such was the smell of gas. I was scared to do anything, light switch, charge my mobile (the torch is on my phone, which was dead, but I needed it to turn the gas valve off). What time was it? It was 10.50pm. Who had to ring the gas man? That would be me. His wife answered and he was in bed because he was on an early shift this morning. She asked the problem and I said that I could smell gas, he'd been out that afternoon and that I wasn't sure what to do. She woke her husband and sent him to the house. He smelt gas as soon as he entered the kitchen, had a look behind the cooker and saw instantly that hubby had rived the pipe. He knows about hubby's illness and just said that he'd knocked it, and that it could have happened to anyone and that he was going to fix it so securely that we'll never have an electric cooker again. I thanked him, he showed me how to turn off the gas at the mains and bless him, he helped hubby to put the cooker into the space how he wanted it. Hubby went to give him something for coming out so late and he refused. He wouldn't take anything. That kindness had me holding back tears.
The best of it is, after taking the gas man home, hubby walked through the door with a cheeky smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye - like a mischievious child knowing it was his fault but trying to intercept the telling off before he getting it. Sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee he said how happy he was with the cooker (I was ready to swing for him, but I'm impressed with my level of self control), but it now made the rest of the kitchen look shabby. "I want a new kitchen before Christmas, Easter at the latest". I looked at him, shook my head and went to bed - I couldn't take any more, I was at tipping point. It was almost 1am.