…here I am at the crack of dawn, helplessly encased in plaster; one hand on a cold white washing machine; the rest of me on a mattress on the big old table where Mum normally mixes the dirty clothes with the clean ones, so we'll think she's washed them.

I am also in severe pain.

Things like this wouldn't happen if Mum would settle down and get herself a man.

She'd been hassling me about putting out the dustbins. It's these kinds of jobs that she needs a man for. When I looked at the situation with the dustbins: either I could lift the bins up one at a time to get past Mum's car, or I could shift the car. Our drive's pretty steep, so all I had to do was drop the gear stick into neutral and ease the handbrake off.

Mum's partly responsible here. She'd never mentioned that the handbrake wasn't working. I've noticed women can be terribly vague about these things.

…Do you want to see my cast? You won't yell or anything?’ You never know what's likely to set her off.

‘Geez, Kid. It's beautiful. It's like the graffiti on the railway bridge.’

‘Well…’

‘You didn't! You idiots. They'd lock you up if they caught you. For goodness sake, Kid. Turn your leg around so I can see the rest. Oh, no! Peregrine!’

I'm in serious trouble when she calls me Peregrine. ‘Don't you like it?’

‘Only a little bit sprayed off the edges, Mum.’

‘Well you'll have to sleep in painted sheets. I can't afford new ones and it will never wash out.’

‘Hey. Wicked, Mum. Thanks for the idea. Next time they're over, we'll do the whole lot.’

Her face is making all these jerky expressions, like it's practising being cross and happy, just in case. She never knows when we're teasing her…