Cardboard Boxes

Wealth should be measured in cardboard boxes.  They are the gold bricks of my world, but more valuable and infinitely more fun and useful.

I sleep in them: I have a wicker basket with cushion and fleece, but quite frankly I prefer cardboard boxes.

I hide in them: Boxes with flaps on top and handle holes cut into the sides are best; from there I can plan and spring ambushes.

I recycle them: They shred really well; not too easily like newspaper, not too hard like carpet.  It’s perfect for venting a few frustrations and shredded cardboard has a multitude of uses.  I was supervising the re-potting of strawberries the other day.  It is my self-appointed job to hold down the newspaper used to line the hanging baskets.  That potting mix stuff looks like it’s got shredded cardboard in it.  I like potting mix.  It’s great stuff to dig in but F gets a bit exercised about my efforts.

I’ve seen my cardboard shreddings going into the worm farm.  Apparently it makes good bedding.  Well I knew that already I just didn’t know that worms thought the same. 

Shredding....Bedding.

Do worms think?

I have a cardboard box in nearly every room of the house; and 2 in the garage.

They are great insulation.  Shredded or whole, corrugated cardboard is a great thing to have between my behind and the back concrete.  The richest day in my life was moving house.  All those cardboard boxes nearly compensated for being shut in a basket for an afternoon.

 Mine.  All mine.

Even flattened and stacked on the concrete they were exciting and valuable.  I slept on them for days to guard them against thieves and predators.  A whole stack over a meter high! Mr B covered them to stop them getting wet and then some stranger took them away.  Brigand.  Thief.  Felon.

The Postman brings them.  Boxes with wine, boxes with cork tiles, boxes of books – I’ve opened them all.  They are no use full of human stuff.  Stuff.  F sometimes dumps newspapers, or her sewing off-cuts, or woodcarving projects into my dining room box.  That’s my best box; the one in the sun.  I just have to sit on the stuff or dig into it to make my point:  My box – get your stuff out of here.

I think I have over-exercised myself on the subject of cardboard boxes.  A nap might be in order.  My lounge box calls.


STUFF in my Dining Room Box