I took another look around the kitchen. There was no point denying it, it was a mess: The bin was overflowing, the sink was full, and my expensive marble work-surfaces had been replaced with what looked like a sheepskin rug. Max was staying.
 "So, any news about your house then?"
Max shook his head despondently. Last week, Max had returned from his annual week trip to the bus depot - where he impersonated a bus driver and stole as many packets of coffee granules from the staff kitchen as possible - to find his house had been stolen. He seemed pretty certain it was taken by a "goth and a homosexual woman". He had no evidence, and indeed, no reason to suspect anyone. However, he refused to listen to reason. Now, he was sitting in his (my) underwear, watching game-shows and shouting abuse.
 "So, want to do anything?" I asked.
 "No." He replied, anticlimactically.
Not everything in life is interesting.