It was a late smoky-drinky. Four a.m. I arrived home, somewhat 'tired' due to weight of Isle of Jura in me but at least the snow that fell on my way out hadn't taken hold. I didn't need the spiky stick after all.
The child stolen from the parents who want him is now back with the foster parents who don't want him. He's approaching three and is probably, by now, sufficiently confused and deranged to be electable. His disability means he still can't walk yet and despite the insistence of Socialist Services, the absence of his parents has made no difference to this.
Meanwhile his parents have been moved to a new, bigger council house in a different town, further from where their son is located because they have a family.
Now, we pay the council a lot of money in council tax. You'd think there would be enough in the coffers to employ at least one person with an IQ in double figures, wouldn't you?
I'm going to have to send them a diagram showing arse and elbow, I think. With instructions on telling the difference.