Hangdog

I don’t usually read the papers, but this morning was special: there just might be a small piece about my paintings in the local section. Not that I really care. No fame and glory for me: I know I’m not exactly Picasso. But all my friends would read it!

Then I found it: pure poison. Oozing condescension. I couldn’t believe it! That supercilious little jerk. Angrily I tore the offending paper to shreds. Take that you bastard! And that!

When James came down and wanted his paper, there was only confetti on the floor. I blamed it on the dog.

Bertie back again. Is he feeling guilty about skiving off for so long?

My contribution to this week’s 100wcgu: …I blamed it on the dog…