I HAD a new fireplace and fire put in this week.
In estate agent speak, I am now the proud owner of an inset, living flame gas fire with an attractive cherry wood and black marble surround.
The only problem was, the old fireplace resolutely refused to leave its home.

Oh, it came off the wall OK. Mr Fireplace-Fitter prised it off no problem, and left it leaning against an adjacent wall.
But it then sat looking at me accusingly.
I asked Mr Fitter to help me move it outside (because, natch, the firm I used don’t dispose of the old fitments for you), but we could only just lift it.
In what threatened to develop into a scene from Laurel and Hardy or even the PG Tips chimps adverts, we struggled to get it through the living room door, before deciding it wouldn’t go past the stairs unless we tipped it on its side – and as it weighed about the same as a small elephant, this was a tad impractical without several strong men, which is something I’m rather short of these days.
“Just leave it there,” I snapped, so we did.
Later, after |’d sat admiring the new fireplace for a while, I decided I’d have to destroy the old one in order to get it out of the house. This proved easier to say than do.
The fireplace looked at me threateningly as I went next door to borrow a saw and then into the shed for a large hammer and screwdriver.
As I unscrewed every screw I could find, in the vain hope it would fall apart like a badly put-together flat-pack, I swore I could hear the fireplace, Hal-like, murmuring. “You don’t want to do that...”
Two side doors and a metal panel later, it still stood as solidly built and as heavy as ever.
I resorted to the saw.
Though it felt like hacking a longtime friend in half, I set about slicing through the mantelpiece.
A knife through butter it wasn’t. Thirty minutes later, my right bicep a full centimetre bigger than the left, I finally cut through the three-inch wood.
The fireplace stood there, unblinking. It didn’t budge.
Great.
After briefly considering retreating into a foetal position and whimpering quietly, I resolved to think logically about this.
Two seconds later I was whacking the damn thing with a hammer. This achieved precisely nothing, apart from plenty of chippings from the marble, which deposited themselves in a wide arc around the room.
OK. Time for a rethink.
Suddenly it struck me. There was no point trying to demolish the strongest pieces of the fireplace – I had to look for its Achilles’ heel.
With renewed vigour I set to, hammering at the weakest points. Although with every hit I could hear it pleading with me (“Do 13 years of service mean nothing to you?”) I persevered, (“Please, I could just stay here...") and finally (“...I wouldn’t be any bother...”) managed to prise it apart (“You’ll pay for this...”)
It now leans, in bits, against the garden fence, dripping in the rain.
I feel guilty as hell.

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