My mother put the papers on the tray table and looked at Granma expectantly. ‘What?’

There was the sudden, unmistakable stench of hot piss. My mother sat back. None of us looked at each other. I put my hand on Granma’s back. Her spine felt like the end of an escalator, vertebrae rippling under rubber. She gripped her stick. ‘I forgot.’

After a minute or so had passed, my mother placed the papers gently on the side table. ‘You need to sign this so that we can sort the money to pay for this place.’

Granma looked at the form. ‘I’ll have the lamb.’

‘No,’ my mother said, ‘it’s not a menu. It’s something for you to sign, about money.’

‘Lamb,’ Granma said, ‘just put lamb. You’re getting on my nerves, now.’

My mother handed her the pen. ‘You need to sign it, Mum. Here.’ She pointed with her finger.

Granma took the pen and diligently wrote the word ‘Lamb’ in the signature box.

‘Oh no, that’s not right!’ My mother snatched up the form. ‘Your name’s not Lamb, is it? I’ll have to get another form.’

Lamb’s eyes were big and frightened behind her glasses.

‘It’s okay,’ said my mother. ‘We’ll sort it.’

There was a tone in my mother’s voice that made me feel sick with hope.

ALL MY CIRCUS, ALL MY MONKEYS

I meet Nicolette at eight in the cheap pub near Goodge Street with the stained-glass windows and stained upholstery to match. I’m wearing a ‘Nostromo’ T-shirt and an amber necklace. It’s an outfit that I think suggests a rich internal life. My hair is done but not too done, and my black denim skirt is short enough to suggest tasteful but empowering nudity.

Nicolette arrives in a bad mood.

‘What news from town, sister?’ I cry.

‘I’ve cracked my screen again,’ she rages.

‘Oh. Here, have some awful wine.’

‘Thanks. Oh, it’s even more awful than usual. I almost want to congratulate them behind the bar.’

‘It’s just so cheap, you can’t argue.’

‘You really can’t. I also think something about it pleases me when the rest of my life is relatively tasteful.’

Nicolette puts her phone on the table. It is indeed very cracked.

‘What happened?’

‘Mood malfunction.’

‘Ah.’

‘So that’s sixty quid even with insurance.’

I sigh. ‘I have my own courtesy-phone debacle to deal with right now. Look. The fact we have to pay for all these devices is in itself outrageous. It’s like a modern version of the window tax.’

‘Oh my god, that’s EXACTLY what it is. Charging me for my windows on the fucking world!’