Little Charlie Buckets
Well, now I've done it.I am laid up.
I have a small terrier mutt named Little Charlie Buckets. Buckets is fifteen pounds of pure terror. He's a little hellion, and Laurie and I love him, but he's also a perfect pain in the ass. The other night around 11PM - as I was watching television and kanoodling around the web - he suddenly leaped up like a crazed maniac, howling into our backyard like he was chasing the Babadook.
I tend to have high blood pressure (shocking, I know) and when he does that kind of spontaneous screaming into the night it shoots my blood pressure through the roof. So I jumped from the couch and ran outside to make sure that he was not having a confrontation with, if not the Babadook, a friendly local skunk.
My backyard is small, but two-tiered. Directly off the dining room is our patio, where my smoker-grill stands at the ready, and a short wooden stairway that leads up to garden beds. As I went running up those stairs I tripped, fell, and snapped two ribs.
{Stupid Charlie Buckets.}
Nonetheless, I can't help but notice that Corbyn took Labour.
This does not bode well.
