Breakfast Routine

Living at my childhood house I came downstairs for breakfast. The door to the kitchen was blocked by the frame of my old bike which my dad had painted green. He had gone off to work. I moved the frame into the hall.
Next job was to put the kettle onto the gas stove. However dad had modified this and flames shot up to the ceiling. My mum had appeared from work looking for a cup of tea. Problem was that apart from the dangerous stove the kettle was leaking. I dashed off to the shops for a new kettle.
At the first shop the assistant, who knew me, wanted me to buy a photo album made of cloth. It was peculiar in that it was full of magnificent pictures of Ancient Greek statues and landscapes. Your own photos got superimposed onto different parts of these pictures. It looked great.
I resisted its purchase and found myself back at the house clutching a giant electric kettle. It was big enough to climb inside.
Another problem was that it was dirty. Not new, been used before.
Got to take it back for exchange. Where to was the first problem. Could not remember buying it. No receipts in my pocket, no clues.
So, summing up, breakfast time, wet painted bicycle frame in the hall, flaming to the ceiling stove, no magic photo album, giant dirty electric kettle and no cup of tea.