Baby Mumps has got his mates round, some lads called Trev off the estate. The air is fizzy with shell-suit static and the smell of teen semen. They’re off out later on so they’re getting loaded on cherry 20/20 and Broon. Mumps has his mixed in his Thomas sippy cup.
He holds court on a Trev’s knee, tapping fags and taking the piss, showing off his beatbox skills. Women are the night’s priority. Mumps cracks mucky jokes about wet nurses and fingers his ‘tache. God help them down the roller disco.
They get a Chinese for their tea and Mumps sucks the batter off a bag of pork balls. He fists the insides into the Trevs’ hair and chortles ‘til he tumbles over. When the taxi comes he hops into his car seat and buckles himself in, kicking his little DMs in glee.
That Mumps is no son of mine. The little shit gets through five pounds of mince a week and downs more Calpol than Soft Mick. He mixes it with the gin he nicks from my knicker drawer.
When they’ve gone I crawl out of the cupboard and start to clear up. The house is a wreck - bottles everywhere, tab ends in the cheese plant, 70s porn splayed open on the rug. In the kitchen the fridge hangs open, everything edible gone. Milk pools on the lino. A tiny bootprint mars the butter.