The day the sky fell, Sophie’s kettle had broken. It had made a valiant attempt to survive, but they knew it’s time had come with one unwilling scree that morning. Now, her morning cup of tea was ever so slowly heating, mournfully, in the microwave. 

The kettle had lasted them a fair few years; once Lizzy and her had got their own place, it was completely up to them to scavenge for things to fill it. Cutlery and plates from a friend, a couple of red armchairs from a suspicious Gumtree advert; their entire home was basically a jumble sale. Lizzy liked to tease Sophie about the mismatched strips of carpet, the tile samples they used as coasters, the curtains that were repurposed from some drab smock from the seventiesthey’d found at a charity shop. But Sophie didn’t mind. It was their place.