Mum is bent over the kitchen worktop sifting through a pile of soggy junk mail, peeling something of the back of a takeaway pizza menu. I hope both my parents haven’t gone mad, who’ll raise me? I still need much parenting.
“Are you making that noise?” I ask.
“Yes!” she cries, without looking up. “Quick, get some black clothes on.”
“Black clothes?” says Lav, who’s inserted herself into her skinny jeans and is now behind me. “Are we doing a burglary?”
“Emergency mime?” I suggest. (Pretty pleased with that.)
“No!” Mum wails. “Your uncle…” She peers closely at the peeled off piece of wet post.
“… Hamish, no Harold, died last week. I didn’t realize the funeral was today. Get dressed!”