The sun shone, birds sang, squirrels attacked a cat nesting on the Compound's fence, and the cat won. All was right with the world, so I went for a ramble after morning prayer.
Past the broken down shacks behind Tarleton House, past the flotsam and debris of Biden's America and into the comparative sanity of the local High's "discipline school."
Dicipline School? It used to be a bakery and sounds ferocious. Like, maybe, Prussian BCT, but it's just where malfeasant teens go to pass high school. The kids have to wear khakis and a polo, a veritable uniform, and they're not allowed to talk in class unless it's requested, either, and their performance or miserable lack thereof is monitored daily. Good heavens.
Sounds a bit like school, which puts the normal ISD carry-on in perspective. Whatever, I know all this because the SPC attended this hallowed hall of academe before embarking on a career of military adventure. He's enrolled in college now, partly thanks to the DS. Thanks, teachers.
