Trapped in a Box

An Englishman’s home is his castle. So presumably his castle is also his home.

A Spanishman’s early afternoon is his siesta – beer and snoozing and 17 different kinds of pork product.

So in Texas, despite relatively low real estate values (compared to say, I don’t know, anywhere in Western Europe) I have to stop my dreams of living in a castle per se, and start thinking more inside the box. My house is a box. A refrigerated box really. So in effect, I’m living inside a fridge. So my fridge is my castle.

My heat / lactose / wheat intolerance means that it’s a castle without cheese or bread for the most part. So instead, I’m choosing to live on the front shelf of the fridge – in amongst the butter and garlic. Just above the orange juice when the door is closed. Which reminds me. In my fridge home, I have to keep the shutters closed – making it dark inside like a closed fridge.

So if I was to get all Spanish on myself, I should add some beer to my castle, and definitely some snoozing. Which is kind of what our dog does. I’ve never actually seen him drink beer, but he wanders around licking himself and breaking wind and then wanders over to a corner and falls asleep.

So perhaps he’s got it right. Nevertheless I feel trapped in the box for five months of the year. I just need to think of it as a castle. Be a bit more Anne Frank. Hiding from the outside under the tyranny of a solar regime.

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