Charlotte's Log - Brown Stardate 20-06-2011

All that business with the book happened about a month ago. Incidentally, I have just randomly sold a download copy to a lady in Derby. I have no idea who she is or how she came by my book. Still, I am very flattered and grateful.

Anyway, it seems that one month is the length of time before ‘Lady Misfortune’ returns to shit in my kettle. You’ll all be pleased to learn that today’s incident involves dog shit again. (Singing: “Return of the cack - return of the cack….’).

While walking my dog, (I think ‘while walking the dog…’ is quickly becoming my ‘during the war…’) I caught sight of a young couple with a child who was in a pushchair further down the road walking behind me. With Charlotte being stricken with arthritis and getting on a bit, I knew they would soon catch up and I was already planning my move to ‘safely’ let them pass.

The whole timing and logistics of this scenario is absolute testament to fate having a particular distaste for me above most other human beings.

The moment of pass-by approached and in usual Charlotte form, she decided to take the opportunity to morph into a little kangaroo, the optimum shape for shitting and, indeed, a clear indication that a shit was definitely (and quite literally) in the pipeline.

At that very moment, the couple came into earshot and the lady asked, ‘Is it full again…..?’

I turned to face her as she was asking this and she was looking straight at me so I immediately assumed her question was for me and that she was referring to Charlotte needing a shit. I smiled and nodded the affirmative and immediately turned my focus back to Charlotte as the lady added, ‘….oh you’ll have to get your Dad to sort it when we get home.’ Even though she was looking directly at me, she had in fact been talking to her pushchair rugrat all the time. She DEFINITELY saw my nod-in-error and she DEFINITELY knew that I thought she was talking to me about my dog needing a shit.

They passed. I cringed. A hole in the ground failed to open up and swallow me. Hate self.


©2020 Phil Ruston

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