(there's nothing sinister about the title and the fact this blog features fictitious children. I just wanted to use sibilance)
"Daddy!" a little sleeve-pulling voice called out. "We're bored."
I took another look at my multi-ethniced children. To be honest, I was seriously beginning to doubt they were mine at all. In fact, I think they might just be a group of orphans who've latched on to me. But I lack purpose, so I suppose I'll keep them 'till they're old enough to leave home, or I turn them into dog food.
Or whatever you're meant to do with kids...
Anyway, I'd ran out of ideas of what to do with them after the airport (Max is gone for a while. I'll forward his mail on to him, don't worry Max fans) so I'd continued the transport theme and taken them to the train station. There were no trains. In fact, the more I looked around, the more and more I doubted we were actually in a train station. Scantily-clad women were wandering around, and there seemed to be a lot of red upholstery, curtains and such. Taking a final look around, it struck me that we were actually in a brothel.
I have no idea how I managed to confuse the two, but this is no place for children. I can't, in all good faith, leave them here. Oh well, maybe there'll be an accident at the jam factory...
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