“I don’t remember ever having had a home-cooked meal,” says Richard, crunching over the food wrappers and crushed cardboard boxes that cover his mother’s kitchen floor.
He glances at the broken cooker, cracked microwave and windows blocked by piles of unwashed mugs, some inexplicably tightly wrapped in cellophane. There are no clear surfaces. Blackened, disintegrating cabinets sag under yet more wreckage. Not an inch of floor can be seen.
