As far as mundane domestic tasks go, replacing an old refrigerator with a new one seemed pretty straightforward.
First, go to a whitegoods store with measurements of the cavity into which the new refrigerator must fit. Then choose an appliance. Next, confirm that the store can arrange for the removal of the old fridge when the replacement is delivered. Pay. Arrange for the date of delivery and retrieval.
We settled on the big day.
Two men arrived in a truck. The “team leader” (as he referred to himself) asked to see the fridge that had to be removed before the replacement could be put in its place.
Important context: the new fridge was for a granny flat above a garage, accessed by a single flight of stairs leading to a standard doorway beyond which the ceiling tapers downwards. The store was informed of this on the delivery instructions. Nine years ago, when we moved in, the removalists had no problem getting the existing fridge in.
I showed the team leader the old fridge.
“We’ll never get that down the stairs. It’s too big,” he said.
“But removalists managed to get it up the stairs no problem.”
“Do we look like removalists?”
They did. Still, I wasn’t sure quite how to answer this question, so I suggested instead, “How about you just give it a try?”
“Are you saying I’m lying to you?”
This situation felt like it was a) getting Kafkaesque, and b) unnecessarily escalating. I didn’t answer.
Team leader broke the silence: “Where do you want the new fridge then?”
“In the space, right there, that will be vacant when you remove the old one.”
“How about we just leave it downstairs in the garage.”
“How about you just take it back to the warehouse and I’ll telephone the store!”
Told that these deliverymen had been out of figs to give when it came to this fridge swap, the people at the store were helpful. They assured me a new team of “polite and helpful” delivery people would return with the fridge next morning.
This team was nice. But they looked at the staircase, the doorway and the old fridge and told me that the fridge in the truck would never fit.
But I’d measured carefully, I assured them. They showed me the dimensions of the fridge they were delivering. It was indeed way too big. Because they had brought the wrong appliance. They would, they said, take it back and return with the correct one.
I didn’t want to take any chances. So I called the store whose staff member was yet again apologetic. I cancelled the original order and then ordered another significantly smaller refrigerator so there could be no further problem.
Family members started asking me what was happening with the new fridge. When would it finally arrive? I mean, how hard could this possibly be?
Another delivery duo arrived next morning with the significantly smaller fridge.
The team leader (I was wondering by this stage how many people constitute a team) asked where was the other fridge that had been delivered yesterday? I explained it had been returned to the store.
“It says here that you’ve still got it. I’m sorry, but we can’t deliver the new one until you give us the one that we are exchanging it for.”
“But I don’t have it.”
“I know you don’t. But it says here exchange. So, you see, I can’t leave the new one unless yesterday’s delivery comes back with us. And anyway, just looking at that old fridge, we’ll never get it out of the flat and down the stairs.”
The store said they’d straighten it out. It would all be fixed the next day.
That night family members started making fridge jokes. “How many dads does it take to get a new fridge delivered?”
I tried to explain. That night I dreamed of fridges.
The next day the same thing happened again. I felt teary. Confused. Angry. Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I talked incessantly about fridge deliveries.
Come Day Five of Waiting for Whitegood, I was wondering if this was what the rest of my life looked like. The fridge was supposed to come that day. But the team and the fridge never did.
The next day the store rang me. A team would come, remove the old fridge, unpack the new one and put it in place.
“I’m sorry but I just don’t believe you,” I said.
But then it actually happened. It was a seamless operation on the day.
I still can’t really laugh about it when family members say, “So, tell us the story about the new fridge.”
• Paul Daley is a Guardian Australia columnist
