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Elbow room, too much to ask? Or what about a telly schedule not driven by promise of the naked breast? What we needed was Lenny to claim ownership of the remote. There’d be mutterings, but none to his face, the guy with fingers wide as the remote. But all Lenny wanted was to plug into his headphones, spend his nights in the common room with this soppy smile on his face.

Nine of us in that halfway home. Nine of us guys, and one television set.

The best argument two nights ago, Ricky and a filched copy of the Radio Times and a film that “Contains Nudity”. We sat through sixty minutes of Ken Russell’s seminal work, Women in Love, and then I remember chaos, and almost blood. Ricky sitting there oblivious, eyes only for the telly with Oliver Reed and Alan Bates wrestling nude in front of a roaring fire.

It was Dunc with a plan for tonight. Dunc was going to bring peace to the centre, an evening of harmony that didn’t end with a misplaced fist sending some poor so back to prison. It was a stupid plan, course it was, Dunc back from the charity shop with a board game. Only child, was it, Dunc?

But hey, worth a shot, right? This is why I spent my last three quid on a tray of cupcakes, the kind that are all lurid icing and soft teeth rot. It was the cakes brought them to the table, four guys with hard faces and scarred knuckles munching on E numbers as Dunc set out the board.

Benny said he was the car, he was always the car. Luigi said he was always the car too, same with Kenny. Six of us sitting down to play, and five of us always the car.

Dunc said, ‘There is no car. There’s no little dog, no top hat. This isn’t Monopoly. You collect these little plastic counters, see, with the parts of the ant on them? The winner’s the one who gets enough pieces to make the queen.’

It was Benny with the snigger, and jerk of his head at Ricky in front of the telly.

‘We need another?’

I’m glad Ricky’s not playing the game. Guy has balls, have to give him that, sat there with lips faintly purple, mascara faintly green.

Six of us playing in almost harmony, rolling dice, stacking up counters. It’s only a matter of time, an errant roll, a misplaced elbow, and then I’m hitting the floor and staying there. I hope Dunc does the same, leave the rest fight it out.

And then, oh man, the bliss of it. We lose at least two, right? I figure ramming a dice in a guy’s eye puts him in hospital and the rammer in violation of parole. But think about it, four of them go and that remote control is mine.

If my luck holds I’ll find a re-run of Women in Love.

The game was priced up at four pound in the British Heart shop. Dunc told the grey curls eye glass chain lady he’d had two heart attacks, and it sometimes hurt when he walked, so wasn’t he the kind their shop was meant to be helping? Off she trotted to talk to someone else’s grandmother and we both of us looked at each other, thinking the same thought.

‘Would mean a quiet life,’ Dunc said.

Sure would. Quiet, punctuated by brief moments of terror.

The old ladies gave us fifty pence off. We both chipped in two quid and Dunc used his pinched pennies to buy himself a cupcake, the kind that are all icing, lurid colours and soft teeth rot. He said he couldn’t help it – what they give us inside? Shrivelled up jam sponge, without the jam, and that was on a good day.

There were nine of us guys in that halfway home. Nine of us guys, and one television set.

It would have helped if Lenny had laid claim to the remote. Sure, there’d have been mutterings, but the guy with a single finger fatter than the remote control, who’s going to tell him to switch channels? All Lenny wanted was to plug himself into his headphones, sit there nights in the common room with a soppy smile on his face.

The board game was called Anticipation, and it said on the cover, “frANTic with ANTics”. I salved my conscience in the shop, murmuring something, was it the absolute best board game to make some peace amongst a bunch of paroled prisoners sitting elbow tight night after night in a room sized for six? But Dunc was happy, any board game’s going to do. He’d be a hero, go back with a deck of cards, but they were most definitely off limits. Cards can be gambled with, cards lead to fights. Whoever heard of a fight over a kid’s board game?

‘Only child were you, Dunc?’

Benny said he was the car, he was always the car. Luigi said he was always the car too. Six of us sitting down to play, and five of us, this dick included, always the car.

Dunc said, ‘There is no car. There’s no little dog, no top hat. This isn’t Monopoly. You have to collect these little plastic counters, see, with the parts of the ant on them? The winner’s the one who gets enough pieces to make the queen.’

Benny with the snigger, with the jerk of the head at Dutch sat across the room, his lips tonight a faintly purple colour. ‘We need another queen?’

Six of us playing. Me, I’m going to hit the floor and stay there. With luck, Dunc will do the same, but I don’t owe him nothing. Leave the rest of them fight it out, and then oh man, it will be bliss. One brief moment of terror, and then I figure at least two of them out of this place. Think about it, four of them go, and that remote control is mine.

June came, bringing the village’s annual Charity Cupcake Competition and, as usual, you could cut the tension with a spatula.

Mrs Jones had been practicing. Her grandchildren were bloated and sticky from guzzling her experiments as she worked tirelessly to discover a cupcake that would erase the memory of Mrs Ap Glyn’s astonishing Magical Mystery Muffins from last year.

The village was awash with mistrust. At the local shop, baskets were draped in shawls to conceal contents and the queue stacked up to be served by spotty Tom Jenkins with his headphones and tattoos, rather than Mrs Iorwerth, 3 times champion and not to be trusted.

Mrs Jones strode into the shop with a nonchalant swagger. This year she had a plan. She had made dozens of different cakes - experimenting with everything, from adding beetroot to marscapone icing (inadvisable), to mixing vanilla essence with cardamom and icing sugar (roaring success). Now she knew she had it.

She’d make a cinnamon and ginger spiced sponge base (with real ginger chunks in syrup), topped with her newly discovered cardamom icing. You wouldn’t find this in Delia, no, this was an Ethel Jones original. Unique. The village would be talking about it for weeks.

Casting a wary eye around her to make sure nobody was watching, Mrs Jones slipped a ginger root and a tin of syrup into her basket and covered it quickly with her scarf. But then, when she looked up, there was Mrs Ap Glyn squinting at her through mascaraed lashes!

Mrs Jones thought fast. Mrs Ap Glyn’s myopia was well known, she couldn’t have seen what Mrs Jones had bought, but she’d be down like a shot to inspect the shelf where she’d been standing. That woman would stop at nothing. Nothing!

Quick as a flash, Mrs Jones grabbed a big bag of flour and placed it strategically in front of the tins of syrup and, with a sweep of her hand, she knocked the remains of the ginger out of sight behind the condensed milk. She’d have to trust to fate now; she had to get home - the competition was tomorrow.

The big day arrived. The smell of baking and the stench of fear was rife, but Mrs Jones strode confidently into the village hall and plopped her wicker basket on the judging table, next to Mrs Ap Glyn’s. She could hardly bear the waiting. She had played the victory out in her head often - the devastation of the vanquished, her own proud grin at the camera as she claimed the bottle of wine as her prize, the adulation, the glory...

The whole village waited in the stifling hall, perspiring from the heat and the anticipation that buzzed around them like flies. The judges had been in discussion for 30 minutes when the spokeswoman finally took the stage. Mrs Jones gripped her handkerchief. The room was silent, tense and then the judge spoke, announcing the winner’s name to the packed, waiting hall...

Christmas had been particularly full on and the rounds of social engagements and immersion in the north Walian panto scene had left Fi exhausted, bloated and with a funny yeast infection that just wouldn’t be banished. ‘I need a break’ she thought as she absent-mindedly rummaged through her handbag for keys, paying no attention to the headphone wearing runner she nearly took out with an elbow blow. Pulling out a tangled tissue, she noticed the forgotten email address she had scrawled in mascara at last night’s post performance party. Just the sight of it brought back the taste of the ill thought out choice of peanut butter cupcake cocktail. Yes! This was what she needed - a full on mind body and spirit detox. A silent vegan yoga retreat. Time to get back to nature, space for her inner goddess to be lovingly massaged back to life – she had seen all the celebs doing it.

‘Ding’. The bell marked the start of the day which was breaking through the windows of the dorm room. Five o’clock felt wholesomely early. The glass of tepid tap water for breakfast was nourishing her system, purifying her overdosed organs and releasing the energy of her childhood. Fi reached for her Thai fisherman pants, bought especially for the retreat from an ethnic stall at Camden Market. Her feet were bare as she crossed the hand woven rug in the middle of the room. Pausing for a moment, she mindfully absorbed the way this grounded her and centred her ahead of the morning session. Opening the door of her room, she was greeted with the 5 other silent partners of the organic retreat. Scanning the room, each one smiled at her and nodded their acceptance of each other.

‘Ding’. Each person took their places at the front of their personal yoga mats. As one, they reached their hands up to the sky and straight down to the floor with a loud exhale. The impurities of their lives being expelled in one simple movement. Today was day 3. Meditation day where they were to reflect on their journey so far, to sit with their thoughts and feelings and to envisage their powerful selves in the future. Powerful and rich in emotion, gratitude, empathy and love. Fi couldn’t wait!

She floated serenely to the floor and took up a crossed legged pose, facing into the centre of the room. Arms resting on her legs, she formed circles with each hand using her fore fingers and thumbs. Eyes closed, she looked like a professional yogi – as if she should be on a mountain top in India. Enlightenment couldn’t be far off now, just look at her nail this! It was all going to be plain sailing from here. Life would be so pure and exciting and healthy and …. Damn she would kill for a large glass of pinot grigio and favourite take away in front of Strictly.

I lay on the bed looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling. Mum had helped me put them up there when I was 7, and I had memorised their constellations in the subsequent 11 years. I remembered looking up at them with gritted teeth as I lost my virginity to Matt two summers ago. I'd miss them when I went to uni next month. Maybe I could put some up in my halls? But they had all these stupid rules about sticking stuff on the walls. Maybe I could feign ignorance if it didn't specify ceilings? Probably not worth risking my damage deposit.

I tried to sleep. It was going to be a great night, I just knew it, but I was knackered from staying up too late reading Steven King’s The Stand, and getting woken up by my little sister wanting to watch the Lion King with me at 6 o clock this morning. I'd miss her too, but I couldn't bloody wait to be able to get up when I wanted, eat what I wanted, dress how I wanted.. I had started packing already – cool clothes in one pile to come to Bristol with me, everything else in another. Guess which pile was bigger? I wondered if my loan would come in early enough to go shopping before I moved.

I gave up. Reaching for my headphones, I rummaged through my CDs to find to my favourite. We'd made it the day after our leavers’ day, me, Lucy and Sev. Hungover, reminiscing about the day (and the years) before, and chatting about what was to follow.. It was packed with the classics which had seen us through secondary school together – Placebo, Nirvana, Counting Crows, Greenday, Pumpkins, a bit of Chilis and some Incubus.

Right. Make-up. I didn't go in for much by way of colours. Thick navy eyeliner and black mascara – my trademark look. That'd wake my eyes up a bit. And what to wear? I rummaged for my home-flared combats and paired them up with my Cure t’shirt. Cool. Headphone wire down my front, discman in my pocket. Sorted.

‘Shoulders toes and knees, I'm 36 degrees’ I sang, no doubt horribly out of tune, but fuck it. Mum was taking Louise swimming and dad wouldn't be home for hours.

Heading downstairs I booted up the computer and went to make coffee while the Internet struggled to connect. A giant mug of super sweet and super strong Nescafé, most of which I had drunk by the time MSN had loaded up. Sev was online

‘I’m heading to the park’ I typed. ‘Wanna come’

‘Be there in half an hour’

...

Sitting on the bench, surreptitiously skinning-up in my handbag, I noticed cider George approaching.

‘Hello cupcake’ he grunted, breathing his sour, apply breath at me

‘George’ I nodded, hoping he'd read the signs and piss off

‘You got any cider’

‘No, sorry…. Listen, I gotta go’ I jumped to my feet and started walking, just as I saw Sev cresting the hill. Thank god for that. I trotted over, spliff forgotten and disassembled in my bag. I didn't look back, but I felt a gentle tug of guilt. Poor George. He'd always been there, drunk and stinking, and he always would be. Linking arms with Sev, we skipped over the hill, our whole lives ahead of us, leaving George alone, cider-less, nose pocked and swollen from years of drinking, eyes rimmed red.

Jules leant her forehead against the car window, the motorway passing by in a blur. She should try and get some sleep, the kids would give her no peace on the flight and she knew Colin would be no help with them, but she was too excited. They were finally on their way to Mexico, for not only her baby sisters wedding, but also two long sun drenched weeks, complete with her parents on hand for babysitting duties. Colin had taken some cajoling into this trip, but it would be worth it, she knew it. She glanced over at him and let herself imagine them walking along the beach, hand in hand, watching the sunset over the Cancun Riviera.

Colin was compiling a spreadsheet in his head of how much this wedding trip was costing him. Flights, hotels, car hire, he ticked off the items as the miles sped by on the motorway. New clothes, bridesmaid dresses for Katy and Becky, litres of suntan lotion and bug repellant that Jules had insisted they needed. He could feel a vice like headache pressing across his temples. Jesus, the numbers were eye watering. He glanced in the rear view mirror. Were those Bose headphones that Becky was wearing, head nodding slowly to whatever godawful music fourteen year old girls listened to nowadays? Jules wouldn't have bought her those would she? And the wedding gift. He’d almost forgotten. A Sous Vide machine, whatever the hell that was, for four hundred fucking quid. What the hell was Jules thinking? That there was a magic money tree at the bottom of the garden? He clenched the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. And why the hell did her hippy sister and drippy boyfriend feel the need to get married in Mexico, of all places, and insist that the whole family come?

Katy kicked lazily at the back of the drivers seat. How much longer? She was desperate to know when they would be at the airport, but daddy had shouted last time, threatened to turn round and take them home if they spoke again, so instead she bit her lip. She poked her sister next to her, who ignored her and carried on applying layers of mascara to her lashes. Mummy would tell her off when she saw. Katy would make sure of it. The rucksack between them rustled, so Katy picked it up and placed it gently on her lap. She had some cupcake left from their stop at the motorway services, so she broke off a piece and crumbled it into the top of the bag. ‘Here you go Mr Sniffin’ she whispered ‘It’s delicious cupcake. Daddy said it cost-a-bloody-nuff, so we should eat it.’ The hamster sniffed the crumbs before scooping them with his paws into his chubby cheeks. Mrs Potter next door was meant to be keeping an eye on Mr Sniffin while they were in Mexico, but Katy didn't trust her, she had mean eyes, so she’d decided what harm could it do to bring him with them? Katy must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, the car had stopped and mummy was lifting her rucksack off her lap.

‘The passports are in here’ Jules said to Colin, who was lifting the suitcases out of the boot. Jule’s opened the bag and screamed so piercingly that she dropped the bag, allowing Mr Sniffin to run out onto the tarmac and immediately scuttle off under a row of cars. Colin snatched the bag from the ground and reached inside. He pulled out a soggy shredded bundle of paper. ‘Oh’ said Katy, choking back a sob, ‘Mr Sniffin made himself a bed.’ Colin’s face drained of all colour before slowly turning red. ‘He bloody well did. Out of our sodding passports’