I am not in the habit of looking at job adverts. You may recall that a couple of weeks ago I finished a very short contract that I undertook for the purposes of hearing the reassuring sound of clinking in the House of Pants kitty. I liked the job well enough. It amused me to rattle around in an old town hall and listen to earnest people blather on about step changes and achievable outcomes. What really made it worthwhile, apart from being able to afford slightly better wine and a new pair of impeccably sensible shoes was that for an entire week after I finished it, I basked in the joy of not having to go. You become inured to the blissful state of joblessness after a certain length of time and I find it helps to dip your toe into the mire of misery every now and then in order to appreciate this extraordinary state of grace.
It was around this time that the term ‘looked after children’ entered the local government lexicon. For a while I was asking everyone ‘why are we worried about these children. Shouldn’t we be more concerned with children who aren’t being looked after?’ I eventually twigged that ‘looked after children’ was a euphemism for ‘children in care homes’. You live and learn.
Pic from www.krackhead.com