As I stood at the British Embassy, waiting for the latest news on Max (he'd created a diplomatic incident while on holiday. Again.) it dawned on me I had no idea what happened to those kids who claimed to be mine. Further still, I had no idea what happened to that Mexican family. I'm not really very good at noticing things, I suppose, but it was worrying me that the dragon might have eaten them. Really, it had been foolish of me not to call the council the second I found a dragon living in my backyard anyway. Now, of course, if I was to report it had been there some time and I hadn't told anyone - coupled with the fact it ate a Mexican family and some orphans - I may be going back to jail.
 I can't go back to jail, not after the showers.
 You see, I prefer a bath myself.

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

In the City.

We were in the jam factory, as it seemed a good place to take the kids. Kids like jam, probably. Nearby machines cranked out copy after copy of Paul Weller, depositing him in tiny jars and sending him off to supermarkets. Nearby, the children were spreading jam on strips of wood and eating it. Overall, the Jam factory was a strange place. A large, moustached man in a purple, 3-piece suit was telling us about the history of jam. Apparently, it was created by God at the dawn of time.
 The Jam factory was, as I said before, a strange place. Frankly, I don't think they really knew about Jam, or The Jam, or anything. The second I got out of here, I was tipping of health and safety about this illegal cloning/cannibalism deathshop...

Well, better be off. The kids have to be down in the tube station at midnight.
Yes, I planned to work more titles of songs by The Jam into this blog. It didn't really work. At all. Sorry...

Sleeve-pulling and a complete lack of sodomy (luckily)

(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...

Children and airports and crap.

I've taken my children to the airport. As far as you should be concerned, they wanted to see planes taking off, landing, eating and bathing themselves in ponds, or whatever planes do in the wild. Whatever you may hear, I wasn't attempting to stuff them into other people's luggage and get rid of them. Max, meanwhile, has been getting under my feet recently. His foolish antics, once lovable, have become tiring and crass. Packing a case for the gentleman, I've reminded him of his desire to visit Fiji.
 Max has never desired to visit Fiji, but I saw an advert and sent him on his way. Hopefully he'll be far away before he realises his case is full of obsolete Video cassettes and old newspapers. Still, dressed entirely in elk fur, he's ready for the trip. I'm unsure if he knows where Fiji is though, or what climate it has. If he did, I doubt he'd have opted for 7 pairs of underwear...
 For my part, I've left the kids in the airport cafe. I'll go back for them eventually, when they run out of muffins and cappuccinos.

"Hey Max! Look at that kid's phone. Is it one of those new Nokia ones?"
"Yea, think so." Replied Max. "God, I'd love one of those, it'll be years before it becomes obsolete."
"Yea, and it's got a really good camera." I replied.
"What?" Replied Max, "Oh, we're talking about the phone? Oh dear."