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House of trouser.
Our flat was a dump.
Ill-kempt and dirty.
Home to four wretched beings
and not a cook amongst us.
The Hoover had passed away along time ago.
It stood motinless in its wooden coffin,
the small hall cupboard.
Gathering dust.
The bin was full of drained beer cans
and empty Pot Noodle cartons were regimentally
stacked high in a corner of the kitchen
next to the fused cooker.
Our only pride and joy
was a brand new jug kettle.
We had banded together
this band of brothers
and bought it between us.
It was a sign that life could live here.
After all, we had to eat.
