When you move into a new house, although the former human occupants have gone, a scary, fire-breathing beast remains.

And you must, at all costs, become friends with it.

I'm talking, of course, about the central heating boiler. Our experiences with the boiler in our new house have, so far, not been good.

This particular one seems to have a complex, temperamental character and we haven't yet reached a mutual understanding.

The problem began last Saturday, the morning after we moved in, when we woke up to find the house was icy and the central heating had not come on.

This was despite the fact that the previous owners had assured us it was on a timer and we'd be toasty for breakfast.

My husband's first thought was that we'd been cut off. "Phone Transco," he commanded, while he fiddled with the boiler's programme settings. "It looks like we've lost our supply."

I didn't question this, even though I'd just witnessed my husband boil a kettle on our gas hob, because I had some vague recollection about being told I had to phone someone to confirm whether we wanted to keep our account with British Gas (the supplier at our previous address) or go with Seeboard Energy (the supplier at our new address).

Naturally, I'd forgotten to do it. And now I shared my husband's panic.

"Madam," said a calm voice at the other end of the line. "I can assure you that you haven't been cut off. But if you should wish to take up Seeboard Energy's offer I can transfer you to another ... "

"I haven't time for all that now," I barked. "We're freezing here and I've got to help my husband read the boiler's instruction leaflet."

An hour later, after pressing several buttons on a display screen, the boiler kicked into action ... and I felt like kissing it.

Two hours later, we were all roasting. "Can't we turn down the temperature," I said to my husband, who was unpacking boxes in his pants and T-shirt. "It's already on minimum," he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Perhaps we should just turn it off."

"Hang on," I said. "According to the instructions, if we press the button marked ADV it'll advance the programme to the next 'off' setting, but it shouldn't affect the timer."

My husband gave me a blank look. "Whatever," he said.

The house began to cool down nicely. But at 4pm, when the heating should have come back on, there was not a flicker of life in the beast.

By 5pm, we were back in overcoats and I was reading the boiler's instructions forwards, backwards and upside down.

"I don't understand what has happened," I wailed. "I've tried every permutation. At this moment, the heating and the hot water should be on constant."

My husband had the bright idea of checking to see if the pilot light had gone out. It had.

We then spent another half an hour trying to understand a diagram showing which knob we had to hold down and which one we had to turn.

"That's it, we're chucking out this old thing and getting a new boiler," I said huffily, just as a blue light whooshed out from underneath a metal panel and the thing was alight again.

"Shshh," said my husband, quickly putting his hand over my mouth and leading me away from the rumbling monster. Let's talk about this in the garden."