A post in which your neighbour fails to be an Investigative Journaliste

Typical.
I go away for the weekend and exciting things happen.

I was (loudly) carrying some furniture to be chucked out down the stairs yesterday and passed the first floor flat below mine. The door opened suddenly and Lovely Miss and Master Downstairs peered out with faces full of paranoia.

"Oh! It's you!" said Miss Downstairs, "Would you like a hand with that?" And so Miss Downstairs helps me to my car with the old furniture.

After the usual smalltalk, how are you, bloody awful weather we're having, didn't the neds make a lovely pattern on the stairs with their vomit, etc... I tell her

"So. I was away for the weekend. Did I miss anything?"

"Naah. Well... Actually yes. Someone was kicking the Hoors door in at 4am on saturday... So we called the police. And the police came in for a cup of tea and hear everything. But it's ok because they were entitled to be kicking the Hoors door in"

"Really?"

"Yeah. They got the door fixed. Hence all the staples in the wood"

And so there is. The Hoors door is a door in name only. Otherwise it is just a pretty selection of splinters all held together by hope.

I really, really wonder what part of Scottish law allows you to kick in the door of a brothel :)

Is there, for example, an ancient law excusing "Menne Of The Towne In Desperate Neede Of Aye Shagge"?

Hmmmm.