The houseplants are not coming with me. I can’t be bothered taking them to my Mum’s. Rinse, repeat. She takes care of them, I pick them up six months later, and it looks like she has massaged each leaf with chlorophyll. There is a green lantern like glow about them.

Then I slowly kill them.

The irony is my mother and father smoke like chimneys. These plants must have cancer. I bring them to my chilled, Zen-like zone with baskets full of organic fruit and veg and they repay me by wilting.

I get up off my seat.