The tripping fridge

I have a mild case of the Sunday Blues. Just a mild one, mind. Sunday Blues are something I stumbled upon aged 12, when I went to boarding school. It's that feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. The feeling that you want to wedge a pencil between the clock hand and the clock to stop time from ticking over. The case I have now (and I get it pretty much every Sunday, sometimes cripplingly, sometimes mildly) is not anything near what I used to feel knowing I was to be dropped off back at the hostel in those early months of boarding school. Then it felt like my heart would break. It did get better though, the homesickness became a hazy memory as I got used to it.

In other news, though, The Fridge was duly fiddled with and 'fixed' last Monday. Only one problem: it was still not getting cold in its belly. This is not a good thing for a fridge, as we all know. Especially not mid-Summer. Again, I gave it a couple of days, thinking maybe it was just going through 'a phase'. Then I called The Fridgeman again. He sent two shiny new Fridgemen, bringing with them an impressively big gas bottle (sorry Ozone, again) and a welding thing. They tinkered and toiled and vowed it would be better, waving as they scuttled out of the front door.

I'm pleased to announce that the dear thing has a beautifully cool stomach. Of course, there's a but... It's making the most annoying ocean sound. The kind they play in those hippy joints you go to to have your chakras dusted. All the time. While my kitchen is fairly far away from my bedroom I can hear it in there. So now what? This can't be normal. The Fridge could surely not, due to a regassing, have changed personality into a tye-dyed-t-shirt-wearing, rama-rama-ding-ding teenager playing ocean sounds in its room, incessantly?

Maybe its just tripping on its new gas and I must just wait for it to come down? I hope so.