Sunday night, I was happily concluding an uneventful weekend by defrosting my fridge, when adventure struck. Using my Ikea vegetable knife as an ice pick, I hit the freon conduit. A white cloud of foul-smelling gas under pressure immediately hissed out into my tiny kitchen. Ever the brave defender, T took a quick survey of the situation, and, drawing upon his remarkable crisis management abilities, opened the back door and flew out the front one.

Meanwhile, I pulled the stove out (something I’d hitherto been unwilling to do because of the ick factor), and pulled the fridge’s plug. With images of a spark, the gas, a blast and my fridge door flying past me through the living room, I googled “freon toxicology”. Satisfied, I returned to the disaster area and confirmed the demise of the cooler.

No, really, it was quite exciting when it happened…