Jenny says that she has to get back to work and she tells me to calm down and really and truly they’re all the same. All fish fingers are made of pollock and she wants me to get over myself. But I find that I can’t and that I can’t let it go and that I’m repeating myself. Jenny tries to move away from me and the thing is that I don’t want to turn into my father but I don’t want to let this thing go either. So I ask Jenny if this thing with Jerome is a fucking joke and I push against her.

I open the box and I take out the frozen orange fingers. With the last of the evening sunlight coming through the window they look almost beautiful, they seem a brighter orange than normal. I look at Jenny, she is on her hunkers cowering by the bin and she has her hands on her head as if protecting herself from an onslaught of hailstones. I continue to admire the tone of the fish fingers – how they are almost reminiscent of the bright oranges that you see in the orchards in Spain heading down towards the Mar Menor. And all of this sense-triggering is wonderful as I fuck the rock-solid breadcrumbed fingers on to the kitchen floor and then use them as miniature fish stepping stones. I walk over a couple of them and I mash a couple more into the soles of my shoes.

Jenny moves her hands from her head and snatches at some fish fingers on the floor beside her, and sticks them, fuzz and dirt and all, under the grill. She has her back to me and I whisper into her ear that I’m not sure about all this business with Jerome.

I push her to the floor not violently but with enough force. I’m a bit worried that I’ve hurt her and I call her name. I notice that the white wooden floorboards, worn down by the rushing of the children’s feet, could well do with another lick of paint. I call her name again, but she is staring through me. She sits up and there are flecks of self-raising flour that Maeve has sifted on to the floor, instead of into the baking bowl, in her hair. There are orange breadcrumbs in Jenny’s hair.