the wrong sort of question

Somewhat fortunately, the boy has been marvellously well-behaved all day, not complaining about being dragged all the way to the Old Town in the macpacbackpack just so that I could pick up a spare handlebar from someone off the internet (which I would have done at lunchtime had I been at work as normal), not complaining much about being taken into the museum solely to have his nappy changed rather than to play with the musical tube thing in the child-entertaining room nor to look at the exhibits (not that there was much exhibit-viewing-time left by that point) and not complaining about being backpacked back rather than getting the bus when it looked like a nine-minute wait at the only stop I checked. He had a wee sleep on the way back and therefore didn't notice that we didn't get home until about an hour after his normal teatime. He ate everything, played nicely and barely complained during the put-to-bed process, all the time completely failing to spot that his mum was not present and had not been seen since he was put into the car shortly after I returned from my extremely brief visit to work seeing as he was asleep when we dropped her off at A&E after her doctor sent her almost directly there after she popped there early this morning after the past week's coughings caught up with her last night and aggravated the non-serious but niggling medical condition she's been nursing since shortly after emitting the wingpiglet.