Fridge envy of the neighbourhood

Buying a fridge is harder than it seems

Photo by Anastasiia Balandina on Unsplash

For one year and nine months, I’ve been dreaming of owning a Smeg fridge.

I knew exactly which one I wanted—the Smeg fifties style fridge-freezer combo in bright red with a left-hand hinge and the freezer on top.

I am not materialistic and have never dreamed of owning fancy cars or designer handbags. I’d rather spend money on a holiday. So, of all the things I could have wished for, I was more surprised than anyone to find myself fixated on a fridge.

I loved it and thought it was perfect in every way, except the price.

‘How much?’ Chris said when I showed him a picture. ‘We could have a holiday for that.’

‘We could,’ I said. ‘But a holiday will come and go. The fridge will be forever.’

‘It’s just a fridge,’ he said.

‘It’s not, though. It’s amazing!’

Chris didn’t share my passion, but I knew he would come round to the idea. It was only a matter of time before I had one in my life.

My interest in the Smeg started when it appeared in early episodes of The Great British Bake Off before the BBC panicked about product placement and banned it from the show. By then, it was too late. The seed was planted. It was odd really, because I barely knew what a kitchen was, but as my love of baking grew, so did the idea of owning a Smeg.

It wasn’t until we moved house in September 2021 and found ourselves fridge-less that I finally saw my opportunity. We were between houses—we’d sold our old house, but the new one wasn’t built. We ended up living in a rented house that didn’t have a fridge. To put us on, we bought a small one, not much more than a camping fridge. And the plan was to buy a Smeg when the new house was ready.

The countdown had begun.

Then came the cost-of-living crisis. Prices soared. We watched, waited and hoped for a drop, knowing that when the price was right, we would buy it. In the meantime, we moved into our new house, taking the temporary fridge with us.

When Chris grumbled about it (which he did frequently), I’d remind him it would all be worth it in the end.

‘Think how good the Smeg will look in our kitchen,’ I said. ‘Think how you’ll feel every time you open it.’

I imagined the day it would arrive, pictured it in position, thought about the compliments from friends—it would be the fridge envy of the neighbourhood.

‘We love your fridge,’ everyone would gush. ‘It’s AM-AZ-ING!’

When I was shopping in Leeds, I would regularly visit my fridge-to-be on the second floor of John Lewis, dreaming of the day I’d buy it. Instead of ordering online, we would order in the store and make a day of it—having lunch, browsing the shops, maybe even a theatre visit. After waiting so long, I was determined to make an experience of it and enjoy every moment.

Having a lot of fun with my fridge-to-be.

Still, we watched the prices and waited. Higher. Higher. It was like Play Your Cards Right, but with a fridge.

At Christmas, there was a £100 cashback offer, which was tempting, but not good enough. We hoped the price would come down.

It didn’t.

The offer ended; the price stayed the same for months. And then, in May, we were shopping and called in just to check, and the price was lower.

This was it. We had to strike.

We stood in the store in front of the fridge, feeling that our dream of owning one was within touching distance.

‘Do you need any help?’ the store assistant asked.

‘We just need to check the measurements,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll be back.’

He nodded and walked away, leaving us to scrutinise the fridge from every angle, making sure it was just right.

‘It seems deep,’ Chris said, stepping back so he could take in its full size.

‘Is this the one we’ve always looked at?’ I asked.

Chris nodded. ‘I think so.’

I lifted my arm and held it against the fridge, which was exactly the length from the tip of my fingers to my shoulder. ‘Will it fit?’

Chris shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘It will,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

When we got home, Chris grabbed a tape measure. ‘It’s too big,’ he said.

‘No!’

‘It’s massive.’ He held out the tape measure, showing me how far the fridge would protrude into the room. ‘We’d have to walk around it.’

I stared at my kitchen, as though seeing it for the first time. Everything was tall and slimline.

‘It doesn’t go with this kitchen,’ Chris said. ‘It needs to be in a bigger kitchen in a bigger house.’

‘Are you sure those measurements are right?’

He double checked, nodded. ‘This is not the right house for that fridge.’

‘Then we need to move,’ I said. ‘We need a bigger kitchen.’

Chris pulled a strange face, like he was in physical pain.

‘Or can we knock through?’ I tapped the wall. ‘What’s behind here?’

‘If we do that, we’ll need a new kitchen,’ Chris said. ‘And this is a new kitchen.’

I pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at the space where my fridge should have been, feeling nothing but disappointment. ‘Why didn’t we think to measure it sooner? We could have saved ourselves so much heartache.’

The realisation hit me. We’d turned down the builder’s offer of an integrated fridge. ‘No, no,’ I’d insisted. ‘I’m having a Smeg.’

And for almost two years we’d struggled with the world’s smallest fridge, doing several hundred trips to the supermarket every week because it couldn’t hold much more than a bottle of milk.

Needing sympathy, I phoned my mum. She’d been caught up in my fridge frenzy, and been just as excited, if a little shocked, at my enthusiasm. 

‘The Smeg is too big,’ I told her.

‘No! You had your heart set on that fridge.’

‘I know.’

She sighed. ‘What a shame.’

‘It’s ridiculous. I’ve spent years waiting for the Smeg when any old fridge would have been fine.’

‘You can still get a retro one,’ she said, trying to sound positive. ‘Shall we go to Curry’s and have a look?’

‘No. It’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to think about or talk about or even look at one for a long, long time.’

Instead, I went online and searched for holidays. For the first time in my life, I’d been willing to forego a holiday for a product. I’d learned my lesson. I booked seven nights in Majorca, departing in a few days.

The evening before we left, Chris was eyeing the camping fridge with suspicion. ‘I don’t trust it not to catch fire,’ he said. ‘I’ll defrost it and leave it unplugged.’

‘Whatever,’ I said.

On the day of departure, it hadn’t defrosted completely, so he went at it with a chisel, carving off blocks of ice and dumping them in the sink. It was man versus fridge, and Chris won. Or so he thought.

We returned from our lovely holiday feeling relaxed and happy. Chris plugged the little fridge back in, unaware that he’d pierced one of the pipes and the gas was leaking out.

If it hadn’t been for my excellent sense of smell, the toxic chemicals would probably have cut off the supply of oxygen to our brains and killed us.

‘Chris,’ I said, staying remarkably calm. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

While he wrestled the fridge out of the house, I opened every window, then went to my friend’s house for an emergency cup of tea.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked when she saw me.

‘It’s the fridge,’ I said. ‘The fridge!’

She was very sympathetic, listening intently as I told her the full story. ‘And now we don’t even have a fridge!’ 

‘We’ve got a plug-in cool box,’ she said. ‘Do you want to borrow it?’

‘Yes, please!’

‘It’ll put you on until you get the fridge you want,’ she said.

I smiled, no longer caring about the make and model. All I wanted was a fully functioning fridge that was big enough to hold a weekly shop and had all its pipes intact so it wouldn’t kill me.

‘One day,’ I told myself. ‘One day.’