Bristle Blockade

I wriggled out of that towel fortress and slipped through the flap straight into the crisp morning air. Right across the damp patio slabs, a heavy wooden garden broom had tipped over, its dense row of stiff red bristles sticking up like a spiky barricade. It thought it could blockade my runway. Not a chance. I backed up three paces, dug my stubby soles into the wet stone, and launched my round body straight against the wooden shaft. Clack! The handle rolled two inches with a coarse scrape, flattening damp moss beneath it. I scrambled right up onto the cylindrical timber handle, planting both feet wide to survey my conquered yard.