Amanda Will Sort It

Date: 7/19/2026

The front door has been left open. Wide open. Practically an invitation for our cats to escape. And escape they do. A blur of black and white flashes past my legs. Pickle. A heartbeat later, a streak of ginger and white follows. Monkey. Gone. “Oh, for God’s sake.” The Death Door, we call it. I mean, our house doesn’t exactly back onto the M5, but it bloody may as well be. The way some maniacs bomb down our street like they’ve just robbed a bank. Honestly… dude, this is a thirty. Slow the fuck down. The front door is strictly off limits. The cats know it. No amount of mournful pawing or Oscar-worthy performances involving tiny, sorrowful faces pressed against the glass changes my mind. The back door? Absolutely. The garden? Fine. The front? It’s a firm no. I turn to find Maxi still standing by the open door, looking suspiciously like a teenager who’s already started rehearsing his defence. “Did you leave the door open?” I ask. He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he develops an intense fascination with his trainers. “Wasn’t me.” It’s remarkable, really. Two words have never sounded so guilty. I don’t even bother arguing. There’s no time. I rush outside, shielding my eyes against the morning sun as I scan the street. “Monkey!” My voice echoes between the houses. Nothing. “Pickle!” A twitch of someone’s curtain across the road confirms that at least one neighbour has now paused their morning to witness whatever fresh chaos is unfolding outside Number Whatever-We-Are. Frankly… I don’t give a fuck. If shouting my cats’ names at the top of my lungs makes me look like a lunatic, then so be it. I’d rather be that woman than the one scraping flattened feline off the road with a snow trowel. The image arrives uninvited. Monkey. Pickle. Two furry pancakes with whiskers. Nope. Absolutely bloody not. I shake my head so hard it’s almost like I can physically fling the thought out of it. “Dreamies!” I yell. The magic word. Normally, that’s all it takes. I could whisper it from the bottom of the garden and those two would come charging through solid brick walls like tiny furry crack addicts. Not today. Silence. No jingling collars. No hopeful little faces appearing from behind parked cars. No dramatic sprint home fuelled entirely by processed chicken flavouring. A strange feeling settles over me. The street seems… quieter somehow. Too quiet. Then I feel it. A faint vibration beneath my feet. I frown. Somewhere nearby… THUD. I glance up the road. Nothing. THUD. The paving slabs beneath my trainers tremble ever so slightly. “…What the…” THUD. This time it’s closer. Something enormous lumbers around the corner. At first, my brain simply refuses to process what it’s seeing. It’s… Well… It’s sort of… A woolly mammoth. If someone had crossed it with a rhinoceros. Then built the whole thing in Minecraft. Every surface is square. Its legs are giant grey pillars. Its ears look like someone cut them out with safety scissors. Its horn is a cube. Even its shaggy fur somehow has edges. It doesn’t look real. The thing fixes its tiny black eyes on me. “Oh… no.” It snorts. The sound alone rattles next door’s hanging baskets. Then it charges. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” I flatten myself against the hallway wall just as several tonnes of aggressively pixelated wildlife thunder past, missing me by what feels like inches. It almost takes the doorframe with it Family photos leap from the hallway walls. The shoe stand performs a dignified collapse, sending trainers bouncing across the tiles in the most underwhelming game of ten-pin bowling ever witnessed. Without breaking stride, the creature barrels into the living room. Eventually, after what appears to be an extraordinarily complicated twenty-seven-point turn, it lowers itself onto the carpet with a deep, satisfied WHUMPH. It stares at me, panting expectantly, like it’s been waiting for me. “Well… this is inconvenient.” The creature lets out what can only be described as an affectionate grunt. Its square tail gives an awkward little wag. For one completely irrational moment, I actually consider offering it Dreamies. Something tells me I’d need the family-sized tub. Before I can decide, the front door swings open again. In walks Mat. Except he isn’t alone. He’s carrying armfuls of… crap. Random crap. It’s as though he’s wandered into somebody else’s garage, thought, ‘Ooh… that’ll come in handy one day,’ and simply helped himself to the entire contents. Behind him are two men I’ve never seen before, equally burdened with miscellaneous tat. “Afternoon,” one of them says cheerfully, squeezing sideways through the doorway with what appears to be an old bicycle wheel. “Where the hell are you going to put all that stuff?” I ask. Nobody answers. They simply keep walking. Mat carefully places a dusty cardboard box on the floor. Written across the top in faded black marker are the words: Cables. Just… cables. You know the ones. The mysterious wires every household owns but nobody dares throw away because the moment you do, you’ll apparently need the charging lead for a Nokia 3310. “I thought we could store it in the eaves,” Mat says casually. I stare at him. “The eaves?” “Yeah.” “I’ve literally just cleared the attic.” I spent months clearing it. Charity shops, trips to the tip, endless conversations beginning with, “Do we really need this?” It has become my greatest achievement: a calm, almost empty sanctuary above the madness. Well… almost empty. There’s still one lonely plastic storage box tucked neatly into the corner. The label reads… Christmas Shite. Which feels about right. “What,” I ask, pointing towards the first object I can see, “is that?” Mat looks. “Oh… cassette player.” Old school doesn’t even begin to cover it. The thing belongs in a museum. I fold my arms. “Do cassettes even exist anymore?” He shrugs. “You never know.” Ah yes. Those four little words responsible for approximately eighty-five percent of all household clutter. You never know. The three of them begin marching upstairs, back and forth, like determined little worker ants. Only instead of carrying leaves… They’re transporting the contents of Britain’s least successful car boot sale. The first trip isn’t too offensive. Cassette player. Fine. The second raises questions. A fax machine. A porcelain clown. Nobody needs a porcelain clown. They’re born haunted. By the fourth trip, they’ve stopped pretending the items have a purpose. Half a mannequin. An ornamental duck wearing a bonnet. A grandfather clock. “…Has somebody died?” “No.” “Been evicted?” “No.” “So where has all this come from?” “Bloke was getting rid of it.” Of course he was. Because that’s how this always starts. Some poor soul clears out their life… …and somehow it ends up cluttering mine. I trail after them upstairs, already feeling my eye beginning to twitch. My beautiful attic… My gloriously empty attic… is under siege. Every carefully organised corner is disappearing beneath random boxes. The eaves are filling at an alarming rate. I watch one of the men disappear into the far side carrying what looks suspiciously like an exercise bike. “How,” I ask, “did you even get that through the loft hatch?” He shrugs. “It folded.” Well. That’s annoying. Before I know it, I’m lining up boxes, turning labels the right way round and making neat little piles. I freeze. What am I doing? This isn’t my mess. And yet… Here I am. Organising somebody else’s chaos. Again. The mammoth lets out a low grunt from downstairs. Almost as though it’s laughing at me. “I heard that,” I mutter. The next thing coming up the stairs makes me stop dead. It’s a false leg. Just… a leg. Swinging casually from one of the helper’s hands like a baguette. Finally, I clear my throat. “Please tell me that wasn’t still attached to someone.” He shrugs and disappears into the eaves with it. I decide I don’t actually want to know anymore. Besides… I have a growing suspicion that the giant mammoth in my living room is currently the most normal thing in my house. By now, the house barely resembles my house anymore. Every available surface has acquired something. A pile. A box. A lamp with no shade. A biscuit tin full of screws. A picture frame containing somebody else’s wedding photo. I’m almost afraid to ask. The hallway has narrowed to a sort of obstacle course. You can still get through it, but only if you breathe in, sidestep the grandfather clock and don’t mind brushing past a porcelain clown that’s been staring at the front door for the last ten minutes. I wander back into the living room. Or at least, what used to be the living room. The giant mammoth-rhino is still there, taking up most of the floor. It hasn’t moved an inch. I don’t know why it’s chosen my house. Perhaps I’ve accidentally become some sort of sanctuary for unwanted things. Maxi is scratching behind one of its perfectly square ears. “I think he likes it here.” “Don’t even think about it,” I say. One of the mystery men appears beside him carrying— “Oh, hell no.” A dachshund. Long. Brown. Tiny little legs. He cradles it like a newborn baby. “What’s that doing here?” “Found him.” “Found him where?” He shrugs. “With the rest.” The rest. As though sausage dogs naturally occur alongside cassette players and false legs. I point decisively towards the front door. “That can go back to the sausage factory.” The dachshund slowly turns its head and glares at me before curling itself into a tiny sausage-shaped circle on my favourite armchair. I look around again. The clutter has spread while I’ve been distracted. The sideboard has disappeared beneath boxes. The dining table is now functioning as a temporary warehouse. It’s like junk is breeding. You turn your back for thirty seconds and suddenly there’s another ornamental duck. I move one box, only to discover there’s another box underneath. Then another. It’s like one of those Russian dolls, except instead of tiny wooden women, it’s increasingly disappointing household objects. A bread maker. A fondue set. Three broken clocks. I don’t even… Why? I stand in the middle of the room, turning slowly in a full circle. Everywhere I look there’s more stuff. Not memories. Not treasured possessions. Just things. Other people’s things. Things that nobody else wanted. Things that somehow became my responsibility simply because they crossed my front door. I suddenly feel like the walls have shuffled a little closer. The ceiling seems lower. The rooms smaller. Even the air feels crowded. For a moment, I honestly don’t know where to stand. Every space is occupied. Every corner has been claimed. Even my thoughts feel cluttered. It’s exhausting. Not because any one thing is particularly heavy… But because it’s all there. All at once. Constantly asking something of me. Move me. Sort me. Find somewhere for me. Deal with me. The words arrive one after another until they’re almost impossible to separate. And then… Knock. Knock. The entire house falls strangely quiet. Even the mammoth lifts its enormous square head. I pick my way through the maze of boxes and open the front door. Standing on the doorstep, holding Monkey under one arm and Pickle under the other, is Kylie. For a second, I wonder if I’m still dreaming. Three and a half years stand between us. Long enough to become strangers. Long enough for my mind to go completely blank. Thankfully, she smiles first. “I didn’t have you down as a cat person.” I can’t help smiling back. “Well…” I say, taking Monkey from her. “I suppose a lot’s changed since you last saw me.” Monkey immediately starts purring as though he hasn’t just knocked ten years off my life. Pickle simply strolls inside without so much as a thank you. Typical. Only then do I notice the two suitcases standing beside Kylie. Not little weekend bags. Proper suitcases. The sort you pack when you’re not entirely sure when you’re coming home. I look from them… Back to her. “What’s with the luggage?” “I’ve got nowhere else to go.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it. Then she looks past me into the house. “I thought I could stay here for a while.” Not… Can I? Just… I thought I could stay. And for the first time since this ridiculous dream began… Nothing about it feels ridiculous anymore. I don’t answer straight away. Instead, I find myself looking over her shoulder, half expecting somebody to appear and tell me this has all been some terrible misunderstanding. Nobody does. I look down at the two suitcases. Then back at Kylie. Then over my shoulder into the house. The hallway has all but disappeared beneath piles of boxes. The grandfather clock is now leaning at a worrying angle. The porcelain clown is still watching everyone like it’s waiting for the lights to go out. Somewhere upstairs, somebody drops something heavy, followed by Mat cheerfully shouting, “It’s fine!” It clearly isn’t. Kylie shifts awkwardly. “I really don’t have anywhere else.” I swallow. Every sensible part of my brain is screaming. Say no. Look around you. You don’t even have room to put your own thoughts at the moment. But then another voice — older, quieter, far more familiar — clears its throat. You’ll work something out. Because that’s what I always do. I work things out. I juggle. I shuffle things around. I carry more than I should because it’s often easier than admitting I can’t. People don’t usually mean to hand me things. They just do. A problem here. A favour there. A worry. A responsibility. Another piece of emotional furniture squeezed into an already overcrowded room. And somehow… Without ever consciously deciding to… I make space. Even when there isn’t any. I hear myself sigh. “Come on then.” She looks at me. “You can stay.” It’s barely out of my mouth before I’m lifting one of the suitcases over the threshold. Good grief… It’s heavy. “What have you got in here?” I laugh. “Bricks?” She smiles. “It feels like it.” I nod. “I know the feeling.” Together, we manoeuvre the cases through the maze of junk. “Mind the traffic cone.” “The clown.” “The false leg.” “The mammoth.” She stops. “The what?” “You know what…” I say with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it.” Oddly enough, she doesn’t question it. We finally reach the living room. Or what’s left of it. There isn’t anywhere to put the suitcases. Every inch is already occupied. I stand there for a long moment. Then, almost without thinking, I begin moving things. A box onto another box. The traffic cones into the corner. The cassette player onto the windowsill. The mannequin’s leg behind the sofa. The dachshund reluctantly vacates the armchair after a look that suggests I’m now dead to him. Bit by bit… I create just enough room. Not much. Just enough. The suitcases slide into place. “There,” I say. “We made it fit.” Kylie smiles gratefully. Nobody notices that the only space I’ve actually sacrificed… Is my own. I look around the room. Something feels… Different. Quieter. The mammoth has gone. I hadn’t even seen it leave. The enormous creature that had dominated the room all afternoon has simply… vanished. In the middle of the carpet, where it had been lying, sits a single cardboard box. Small. Plain. Unremarkable. Compared with everything else, it almost disappears. I wander over. Nobody else seems to have noticed it. Mat is still enthusiastically discussing shelving in the attic. Maxi is trying to persuade the dachshund to sit on his lap. Kylie is fussing over Monkey. Life carries on around me. I crouch down and brush a thin layer of dust from the lid. Written across the top in thick black marker are four words. Amanda Will Sort It. I don’t open it. I don’t need to. I already know what’s inside. Everything.