There comes a point in many relationships where the strain between partners is too much, the gulf is unbridgeable; better to be apart than remain unhappily together, wrestling with silent resentment.

I have, I'm sorry, to say reached that point. The elastic has snapped. Enough. Done. Finished. Me or it. As I pay the mortgage and all the bills, it's obvious who's going to be packing bags. The fridge has to go.

I wanted a fridge that stuck to the rules: kept things cool and fresh, with it's dainty little motor humming away contentedly. How straightforward can it get: I open the door, I put things in, take things out, close the door. Pretty reasonable, don't you think. Where's the challenge there? It can't get any more basic.

But it seems all too evident that I bought one of those very rare beasts - something from the Stephen King refrigerator catalogue. Not a full-blown piece of disturbia; I don't open the door to hear a chorus of shrieking souls or see it scuttle across the kitchen floor, and it's certainly not menaced me with the plastic ice cube mould.

In fact, the Stephen King allusion is probably a little unfair; let's refocus and say it's something one of the more mischievous, snarky Hogwarts pupils might own. They'd be made for each other: plenty of attitude, smarmy back chat, and an uneviable talent for low level torment.

And they could serenade each with endless whining, just as my fridge does to me the moment I step through the door. That's the bit that's driving me mad. The noise the damn thing makes.

We have to part company. Middle aged man seeks kindly fridge for long-term (quiet) relationship.