It’s snowing again. This must be, like, the fourth Saturday in a row. I can’t tell you how unusual this is for Norfolk. Well, actually, I can tell you, and I guess I kinda just did. End of story. So let’s start another story. This one’s called The Randy Locksmith. Or, Randy the Locksmith, I don’t remember which. So, in this quaint little village in Yorkshire called Dingly Dell or something, there lived a young wastrel named Randy the Locksmith. His legal name was Randy T. Locksmith, Jr., but all the townsfolk called him Randy the Locksmith, or sometimes Randy the Randy Locksmith, depending on his mood. And it seems that Randy the Locksmith would sneak into Old Man MacGregor’s vegetable patch every night and steal his carrots. Old Man MacGregor was his real name, by the way. Not Randy T. Locksmith, Jr.’s real name, Old Man MacGregor’s real name. His mother named him that in a fit of pique. No one in the quaint little village knew what she was piqued at, and neither did they care. As you can imagine, Old Man MacGregor had a rough time of it as a child, but by the time he had reached a ripe old age, and in Old Man MacGregor’s case, “ripe old age” was particularly apt, he had become comfortable with his name. Anyways, Old Man MacGregor had a beautiful young wife, name of Brandi. And all the men in the quaint little village lusted after Brandi, included The Randy Butcher, the Randy Baker, and especially the Randy Candlestick Maker, not to mention the Randy Vicar. But not Randy T. Locksmith, Jr., who was fond of carrots. One night, Old Man MacGregor sat on his front porch with his over-under shotgun on his lap, and when Randy the Locksmith showed up for his nightly carrot theft, Old Man MacGregor shot him dead. The End. I know! Brandi doesn’t even figure into it! Sorry, Randy Reader, but that’s all there is. Now go on to bed. I don’t care if it’s broad daylight, get on with you. Buy some blackout curtains, for God’s sake. Do I have to think of everything?