Frozen in Time

Our fridge was a donation from the in-laws. It came to live with us in our first rented flat in the Marais in Paris: a lone domestic appliance with only a cardboard box-cum coffee table and FH's student sofabed for company.

The years passed and the furniture clan grew slightly: eventually, there was a small oven to snuggle up to, a "real" bed (well, a futon) and a Swedish bookshelf.
The fridge wasn't pretty or special, but it did its job, survived one move, then another and another and another... with never so much as a rumble of complaint.

It has been with us for over 10 years, though it's actual age (unknown) is probably more like 20.

And now, one marriage, two kids and 10 eventful years later, the fridge is nearing the end. Though it bravely rattles on - stoically cooling the dozens of yoghurts and family-size packs of child-friendly cheese spread we stuff into it week after week - it is starting to show its age.
Were it a human, it would be wheezing and spluttering and crawling into bed for a nap.

Touchingly, it is only now that the end is near and its performance waning that we have started to actually notice it. Oh the injustice of life! Years and years of silent service without so much as a second glance... and yet now, as it struggles towards its last breath, we finally stop, take a look, poke around inside a little.

And the inevitable decision is made: our old fridge must be replaced.
Such is the unforgiving nature of life. Though - if it's any consolation, dear fridge - you should know that, had you fallen into any other household, you would probably have been replaced years ago. In a way, you got lucky.
You fell into the hands of a couple whose materialism thrives in the form of clothes and footwear... but ceases to exist completely when it comes to domestic appliances.

In fact, the mere burden of selecting and acquiring a new fridge tires us. After a few timely clicks on the laptop, FH announces he's found a suitor, and asks if I want to see it.
I don't.
Just order it, I mumble from behind my novel. Domestic appliances, like car problems and certain Swedish furniture stores, are my own personal hell. A sort of quagmire of boredom, the simple prospect of which makes me snappy and irritated.

But, while FH sighs and does the necessary, I do have a passing, tender thought for you, dear old fridge.
I think: you served us well, though you weren't flashy or modern or pretty by anyone's standards. You are part of a different era: you belong to a young, penniless couple setting up home together, an idealistic man and woman who didn't think twice about plonking an upside-down cardboard box in the middle of their living room, and calling it a coffee table.
They just don't make 'em like you anymore. And in a funny sort of way, I'll miss you.