She's in bed, typing away with coffee-burned fingers, her mind fully aware of the absolute state of chaos her house is in. Trying to cope with it has apparently fallen out of fashion, so she does this instead.

She doesn't mind his things coming to stay. A life, 35 years of collecting, resides in the hall and there's just nowhere to put it yet. A blow up bed is deflated in the living room, as she refuses to let her sister stay in her own flat, where it's not safe. All these little clutters are a beast of her own making, but instead of trying to sort it out she lies in bed and types.

She hears the clank of metal buttons scrapping the glass of her washing machine as it spins round. The traffic from behind the still-closed blinds in her bedroom. But she sits apart, wondering why she doesn't just do something. Anything.

She's always happier when she shakes off the moss and her nose is itchy from the smell of cleaning spray as she goes about cleaning, wiping, polishing. She giggles when she does the Shake'N'Vac dance and the powder falling to the floor makes her sneeze. But right now it seems like no matter how she tidies, the place still seems grubby.

Her state of mind is inherently linked to the state of her home. One feeds the other, and vis versa. So, when her home feels spoiled and wrong, so does she - and the feeling gets worse so the house goes neglected as a physical representation of her fractured mind. She knows this is not a new occurrence. She remembers Tarfside, and shudders.

She's off-kilter right now. So she sits in darkness, and waits for something to change.