‘Number seventy-two. Our new home.’ I got out of the car, glanced up at the house and my heart sank. It was horrible. There was a black wrought-iron gate falling off its hinges, a small front garden full of dead weeds and rubbish, a mouldy-looking old chair in the corner with its stuffing falling out and the doors and windows looked like they needed a good clean and lick of paint. ‘Are you serious?’ asked Dylan, as he and Mum joined Dad and me at the gate. ‘This place is a dump.’ I burst out laughing.‘Don’t hold back, Dylan.’ ‘I won’t.’ He looked well fed up. Dad pulled keys out, went and opened the front door then ran back to the gate, gathered Mum up into his arms and carried her over the threshold like she was a new bride. Dylan rolled his eyes as a couple of Indian ladies in saris walked past, stared at them and giggled to each other. Inside, Dad gave us what he called the ‘grand tour’.
