Goodness, but it certainly is good to be back in the saddle -- and, if I might say so at my advanced age, more vigorous than ever. I do not speak here of what I am going to do with the freshed-thighed young lasses of Bridge of Scrapie when I make my spring pilgrimage to the Auld Sod, although there is no more delightful post-coital sight, I would say, than the sight of a pair of firm white buttocks after they have been spiritedly pressed into the young shoots of heather on the hillside behind my ancestral home of Castle Scrapie. Even now the wee Marys, as soon as they have attained the minimum legal age, compete to be first of the season with the mighty Hamish and proudly bear the ericaceous impressions home to show their younger siblings.

But no, in this case, I am referring to something else. Yesterday I launched myself on an aggressive terrorization of my more elderly tenants, and this time I didn't do it with solo telephonic harangues, but to the melodious sounds of their front doors being broken in by Vinnie's 'boys' and the shattering of glass as their possessions were jettisoned from their windows.

The victimization of the poor -- what an underrated pleasure it is, to be sure!