Elsa lets go of my jumper and goes for my hair.

Grandad’s hands creep towards his fags and lighter. ‘Five letters,’ he says. ‘ “Utter confusion”.’

‘Chaos!’ I shout as Pongo drags me towards the front door.

SEVEN

By the time we get home, Elsa and Pongo have both done a poo. Pongo did his by the bus stop – which was very embarrassing because I had to put Elsa on the pavement while I cleaned it up – but Elsa saved hers for when we were going up the stairs. She went quiet, stared into the distance, then turned red. ‘Gross, Elsa,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly home. Now I have to hold you and your poo.’

‘Da,’ she says, hitting my face with a sticky fist.

Mum had better get back soon. As far as I’m concerned, Elsa and Pongo both belong to her. I couldn’t believe it when she told me she was pregnant. I suppose a part of me thought it might be cool to have a sister, but a much bigger part of me thought, how can we fit anyone else in the flat? Officially, we’re not even supposed to have Pongo here. Mum saw him on a website called Hungarian Hounds and – quote – ‘fell in love with his scars’. To get him, she lied and said we had a garden, which meant that when they came to do our home check we had to pretend to live at Grandad’s. She didn’t need a home check to get Elsa; she just went to Glastonbury, met a Spanish man called Angel and came back pregnant.

I know from the silence when I open the door that Mum’s still not back. As if she can sense Mum’s absence, Elsa starts to cry, so I put her down in the mess in the living room and open the nappy bag. Time to change my first ever nappy. ‘Please be quiet,’ I say, trying to remember how Mum does it.

First I take off Elsa’s leggings. This makes her cry even more, so Pongo comes over and licks her face. Her screams get louder.

‘Not helping, Pongo. Go away.’ I push him off, but now he thinks it’s a game and starts licking Elsa all over – in her ears and eyes … everywhere. I’ve managed to undo one side of the nappy when Pongo switches his attention to me, assaulting me with his hot tongue and revolting smell of dog food. ‘Stay there,’ I say to Elsa, then I drag Pongo into the kitchen and shut him in.

When I get back, Elsa’s gone.

‘Da!’ comes a voice from the doorway.

She’s clinging on to the door frame, smiling and wobbling, her loaded nappy only done up on one side. Any sudden movements and it will fall.

I narrow my eyes. ‘Elsa,’ I say in my best baby voice. (It’s not very good; I rarely use it.) ‘Stay. There.’ Slowly, I walk towards her.

She takes a step back and sways.