Fridge

So here in the modest bachelor digs that I call home, last night I was awakened by a sound.  No, rather a lack of sound.  The A/C had ceased its nocturnal wheezing and rattling (the temperature had reached a chilly 82 degrees F, as requested), but the traditional gurgle whine and hiss of the REFRIGERATOR had ceased.

"Consider it as naught" I told my sleepy self, "'Tis but a passing perturbation in The Force, and all will be well upon the AM".  And with this foolish thought I passed it off as but a foolish  dream.

But LO, when Aurora had but touched the Eastern sky with her fingers of rose, and I sallied forth from the fortress of Morpheus to the place of chilled Arnold Palmer (for, though not a golfer, I do appreciate the bevvie named in his honour, and forsaking even coffee and Earl Grey tea unless it's like really cold you know), the customary one point five gallons in  of the nectar prepared for the morning's tribulations (that being indeed only one half tof the day' requirement) was but tepid.

A hasty analysis of the situation ensued.  Perhaps the Locum Refrigierii had become uncalibrated!  But no, various instruments did indeed justify my initial diagnosis.  The occult cold had indeed fled.  An ear placed  to its once frigid ice chest failed to detect the throbbing of its compressor, yielding only the sounds of the Brownian motion of fluids and vapours randomly exchanging phases.

"But what" I thought "of my stashes of cheap vodka, and even of Big Flats Walgreens beer, available near you for only $2.99 per six pack!" "Consumed they must be,  for it is a good idea, and seems important".

So tomorrow I'll throw out some leftovers, and live for the weekend on Vienna Sausages and tinned tuna, despite the fact that I told the landlord a month ago that the fridge was dying.