Musings on fatherhood and food.

Another social worker appeared today. This one wanted to check on little Caligula and also asked some difficult questions about whether I knew what might have happened to the last one, or the one before her. You just can’t get any peace these days, even in your own home.

There must be a nest of these social workers somewhere nearby. They seem to be more numerous than the Ferals. I don’t like them much, they taste bitter and they’re stringy, but there’s not much else available out here in the swamp in winter. We haven’t had a visit from a nice fat politician since the last election, which was won by the only one who didn’t visit the castle. The most sensible one took the prize for a change. Pity they took his brain out as a condition of his appointment, but then I understand they all have to get that done. Too many political brains in one place might cause an explosion so it’s a health and safety thing.

This social worker had hair in the style of a safety helmet although it looked harder. The style was so tight it had pulled the skin of her face into a permanent wide-eyed leer. I thought Caligula would probably like her face so I took her to his room. As always, I let her in, shut the door quick and locked it. While waiting for the screams to stop, I wondered if we had enough of that diabetic otter urine to sweeten the meat. I think we’re running low. Maybe this one would be less bitter. There’s sugar in the kitchen but I hear that’s now considered to be bad for your health.

Once Caligula was full it was safe to enter the room and remove the remains. He’s a growing lad, there’s not much left these days. I’ll have to be careful he doesn’t get too fat. Some of those social workers are nimble on their feet and can be hard to catch.

I have to admit, despicable as he is when awake, he looks really quite sweet when he’s asleep in his cage, covered in blood and flecks of gore and sucking a finger. I was right, he did like her face. He was wearing it.

It’s hard to believe my progeny is over two years old and hasn’t managed to kill or even maim me yet. I hope I haven’t fathered a softie. Even his mother is still alive and has a few fingers left. She’s lost most of her face but well, that’s an improvement in her case.

Oh well, it’ll be bath time soon, once the flecks of gore start to rot. Best get the fire hose and the stab vest ready.

First I have to restock the freezer. That’s one of the good parts of parenting. A steady supply of visiting officials.

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