The new plan to torment Stuart at the lunch table involves a stool.
Pal's paraprofessional brought in a folding stool. It has a round, red top. When I saw her carry it into the building, from my comfortable parking-lot-duty perch along the concrete restraining wall near the exterior locker-room doors, I mistook the stool for a table. What a happy coincidence!
The plan is to get a white tablecloth, drape it over the stool like some fancy schmancy tiny French cafe table, add an elementary-classroom-sized chair, and set them off to the side of Newmentia's cafeteria with a place card for Stuart. Kind of like a reservation for one.
If only we could telepathically induce Stuart to wear a mime shirt that day...