A droubble by mageorge
My wife has many obsessions; the worst is her dustbin fetish. Yesterday evening, she went outside to retrieve the eyesore.
I was in the sitting room watching horse racing on TV.
Crash! Bang! Wallop! I nearly fell off the sofa when she came storming in.
"Right! Who's nicked the bloody bin...this time?" She stood in front of me, hands on hips as if I was supposed to know.
"How the bloody hell do I know?"
"You'd better get off your fat arse and find it, and don't come back until you have!" She always had a way with words.
I reluctantly raised myself from the sofa and went to the front door, then to the back yard gate. I walked the length of the alley, peering over fences like some kind of pervert.
Sure nobody would notice, I decided to steal someone else's.
Ah, this one will do. I gently opened the gate of number 27. Woof! Shit, ouch, ouch.
I ran home, holding the seat of my pants. I didn't know they'd got another dog, a bloody great big Doberman!
"Where's my bloody bin?"
I had to think-fast.
"It's in number 27, go and get it, my darling." :-)