Squirrel poo = good luck?

Are we all full of rage? I keep reading about angry women, articles about how much more irate about life, men, work, the whole kit and caboodle we are. There just may be something in it. I found myself furious earlier, after a 12hr exhausting day, to find that when I went to put my car away, my other half had locked the inner garden gate so I had to lock the car, walk 200m up the road and back down the garden to unlock it. I was cursing and mumbling death threats in his direction (as he sat watching the football), even though it was a lovely night and knowing inside I was massively overreacting. And then, as I stood under the conker tree, pulling open the gate, still cursing, a squirrel took a dropsie from twenty feet up, and it landed squarely, or rather, lengthily, on my right arm, from shoulder to elbow. I know it was a squirrel as a) it was green and looked nothing like pigeon poo, and b) when I looked up, it was looking down, laughing. No more walnuts, brazil nuts, no treats for you lot from me anymore.


Alopecia inducing peanuts only from now on. Calmed me down though. It knew. It bloody knew!

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