Another day, another bunch of freaks. After the extraordinary tutor yesterday (obsessed with saving money on the soap-powder budget and having a nine-stone grandchild - pity the mother that's all I'm going to say) I've had the joy of travelling to Northampton once again for a meeting with a decidedly weird social worker.
"Aren't they all?" I hear you cry, but bear with me here, this one's weirder than most. She's really creepy - not least because I have a deep objection to being called "My Love" by someone old enough to know better and who has "fashion victim" written all over her ill-fitting (and expensive) designer rags. And you can imagine her wanting to tuck her clients into bed each evening and read them a bed-time story. I'd get Mister Squeaky to go and dribble in her ears but he's a bit busy with a paint-by-numbers Sistine Chapel at the moment
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