My eldest foster lad is back from uni. The “quiet life” I’d almost convinced myself I was enjoying has packed its bags. Good riddance, honestly.

He’s been struggling. After a lot of soul-searching, he made the call to come home. If I’m being straight with you, I have my own thoughts about the decision. I’m not entirely sure it’s the right one. But I’m completely, unconditionally on board with him. He weighed it up, he decided what his head needed, and he came home. That took more courage than staying would have. That’s all I need to know.

So. My house is upside down. My kitchen is a permanent disaster zone. And I’ve regained an additional loveable twat whose apparent life purpose is to torment me at every available opportunity. The cheek is relentless.