Max's house is back

"Mars?"

 "Well. It was somewhere."

 I nodded. I do that a lot, these days. Talking is an exertion I cannot afford to make. I need to keep my energy up. For fleeing. I'm no Rincewind, but there's a lot of things I'd rather be quite a distance from. This was one such thing.

 Max, you see, had found his house. As you regular reading bastards know, he seems to have been staying at mine for some time. You know, so we can engage in zany adventures, and drain my will to live. Anyhow, whatever had happened to Max's house was over, and it was back where it'd been when he'd bought it. I maintain that the house never moved, but Max insists it's been in space, or was taken for a joyride. He swears he saw some nuns filling it up with dried pasta at Asda. I denounced him publicly. I won't have him insulting anything that looks like a penguin.

 The house, for all the neglect and abandonment it had suffered, didn't look too bad. Sure, there was a lot of graffetti on the walls. And a lot of stray cats inside. And a crazed old man. I'd expected a crazy-cat-lady-type squatter, but what I got was a suited man who looked a little like Bismarck drinking tea from the Tupperware. I chased him out with a broom, while Max polished the banisters.

 The kitchen was bare. Max offered my a cat, but I declined, explaining I'd already eaten. Lichen fell from the ceiling, showering us as we sat at the table. I looked out the back window at the swings and see-saw outside. I looked around at the walls. I looked at Max.

 "I don't think this is your house."

 He looked around slowly.

 "No." He replied at length.

 We herded the cats back inside, rounded up the homeless and regrimed the staircase. Then we went home. I'm thinking of posting Max somewhere, but I doubt the Post Office will let me.