“It feels really weird, doesn’t it?” she said, munching the chips.

It did feel weird. And huge. The room seemed absolutely massive. It wasn’t, of course, but it just seemed that way, having been so full of stuff.

“Listen, there’s even a bit of an echo … MRS. PRITCHARD NEXT DOOR IS A PAIN IN THE BUM!” she shouted at the top of her voice.

Marty laughed, “Mum!” but she was right. It was kind of echoey. “Mrs. Pritchard is okay…”

“No she’s not,” said Mum. “She complains to the council about me all the time.” Then she looked terribly guilty and Marty’s heart sank as he wondered what all this had been leading up to. She shifted her weight from one bum cheek to the other and pulled out another letter from her back jean pocket.

“Please don’t be mad…,” she said. That was never a good start. “I meant to show you last week.”

Marty took the letter; it was squished and folded over. He smoothed it out on his thigh.

“They’re … they’re sending a public health officer out.”

Marty’s shoulders dropped. He kind of knew there must be a reason behind Mum’s sudden attack of house proudness, but he was hoping it came from a place of perhaps wanting to do it rather than having to. Clipboard-y people had always come to the house. Especially when he was little. And to be fair, the place probably had been a death trap. He used to pretend to be a racing car careening around the narrow corridors as if he were taking part in the world’s fastest race. And sometimes, he’d pretend he was a mountaineer, making his way up mountains of rubbish to the top of the world. The officials would worry about rats and smells, but Marty never saw anything wrong with rats and smells; it was the stone-throwing kids from up the road who worried him more, and the angry man with his red face who kept shouting over the garden wall about “disgrace” and “bringing down the value of everyone’s property.” The rats, in comparison, had always seemed kind of friendly.

Marty took the letter and started to read. He scanned it quickly. They knew this day would come. The warnings had become threats of legal action. And the legal action would mean that Marty always had to answer the door and say his mum wasn’t at home, which was ironic really because she was never out.

“Oh my God, Mum, they’re coming next week…”

Mum shrugged her shoulders.

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

“We’re on our last warning, Mum.”

Mum pretended not to hear.

“We’re almost there; we’ve only got a few more bits to go…”

“A few more bits?!”

“Don’t use that tone with me, Marty.”

“I’m not, it’s just that…”