It was unsettling this morning to walk through what used to be a secure door. It looks like the house forcibly ejected it. Sometimes it feels like Belgium is trying to eject me with this bludgeoning of doors. It seems designed to make one feel both personally targeted and completely irrelevant - just a name on a buzzer. I wonder if they would be so bold as to return before the repair is done, and just walk in to claim their spoils.
Considering this, I spent some minutes this morning transferring all my important documents and pictures to three USB sticks, and put them and my camera and cockerel brooch in my bag. Working on the assumption that burglars are like bailiffs and will not actually take your bed and clothing, this would leave them very little to take. "They", the amorphous, rancid, vicious and bastardy group of people who do this for a living, already took everything of value last time.
Instinct says pack up and run, as before. But packing up and running does not help, it seems. And fuck the lot of them, the arsing cuntwipes, I am not running.
The name Capon originated in Flanders; and Flanders is where this Capon is staying.