The Venga Life

I seem to be living in my Kia Venga. Not using it. Not sleeping in it. Living in it. Properly living. I don’t know how I got here. There’s no defining moment where it all goes to shit, no violins swelling in the background as I lose everything in one catastrophic swoop. Just… a quiet, almost courteous unraveling. A series of small, reasonable decisions that have somehow conspired to leave me idling at the edge of my own life. But here I am. My whole existence compressed into four doors and a boot that refuses to shut unless you whisper encouraging things to it. I’ve got everything I need. Plants — wedged into cup holders and door compartments, their leaves pressed against the glass like they’re silently appealing for rescue. My wardrobe hangs from the window handles, dresses swaying gently every time someone walks past, like I’m hosting a one-woman fashion show for the pigeons. There are trinkets too. Little bits of me. A chipped mug. A candle I can’t light without risking a very public cremation. A framed photo that keeps sliding face-down every time I take a corner too sharply, which feels… symbolic. It’s not ideal. Toileting, in particular, is a logistical nightmare. But nothing a bottle — and a strong sense of denial — can’t fix. You adapt. That’s the horrifying part. Not the situation — the speed at which it becomes normal. Sometimes, if I time it right, I’ll catch the neighbours leaving their house. I’ll emerge casually, as if I’ve just popped out for some fresh air rather than, you know, resurfaced from vehicular existence. “Morning!” I chirp, stretching like I haven’t just slept origami’d into the shape of regret. They hesitate. They always hesitate — that microscopic pause where humanity briefly considers kindness… and then remembers it has somewhere else to be. “Morning, Amanda…” the lady says, keys already in hand, body angled away. “Sorry, got to dash. Busy day ahead.” There it is — that look. The guilt. The ‘we know, but we’re pretending we don’t know’ look. “Maybe another time,” she adds, already halfway down the path. “Of course,” I say brightly. “Another time.” What’s another day marinating in my own filth? It’s fine. No one else knows. I like to think I hide it quite well. Until — “Amanda,” Robin says at work, peering at me with a slowly blossoming concern, “why have you got a toothbrush in your hair?” Pause. Ah. I reach up slowly. There it is. Lodged firmly where dignity once rented a small, optimistic flat. “Long story,” I laugh. She laughs too. We all laugh. Inside, something quietly creases in on itself. Still. I’ve got my cats. Monkey and Pickle. Proof that my life hasn’t completely circled the drain. I arrive at my mother-in-law’s house to pick them up. Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I step out of the car — my car, my humble abode — trying not to think about the fact it’s the only place currently waiting for me to return. I rap on the door. Wait. Footsteps. The door swings open. “Amanda!” she beams — pinny on, hands dusted in flour or the remains of something that once resisted. And then… the shift. Her smile falters. Her eyes scan. Assess. Reassess. Slightly recoil. “You look…” she begins, searching. “Homeless,” I offer, helpfully. Relief floods her face. “Haha—yes! That’s the word!” We laugh. Nothing about this is funny. And then — He walks in. Peter. My father-in-law. Alive. Well. Miraculously resurrected. Existing with the same heavy, tangible disappointment he carried when he was, technically, alive the first time. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. “Where are the cats?” I ask, my voice already tightening. “Oh,” she says, far too casually, “we had to get rid of them.” The words don’t land all at once. They drip. Slowly. Poisonously. “Get rid… of them?” I repeat. “Peter’s allergic,” she shrugs, casually. I look at Peter. Peter nods, like this is all perfectly reasonable. “Don’t worry,” she adds, waving a floury hand, “we found them good homes.” Homes. Plural. Something inside me snaps awake. “You mean—” I swallow, “they weren’t rehomed together?” Peter shakes his head. “Monkey’s gone to Japan,” he says. Japan. Of course he has. I picture him immediately — my sweet, precious puss — living some elevated, international life. Draped in a silk kimono, delicately nibbling sushi, probably purring in Japanese, existing in a level of zen I can’t even conceptualise. Without me. “And Pickle?” I ask, already moving. “With Ethel,” she says. “Down the street.” I’m gone before she finishes the sentence. I’m marching now. No — storming. Gravel spits beneath my feet as I barrel toward Ethel’s house, indignation fuelling every step. How. Bloody. Dare. They. I knock. Hard. There’s movement inside. Slow movement. Very slow movement. A full minute passes. Then another. Finally, the door creaks open. Ethel stands there — approximately 180 years old, folded in on herself like a collapsing deck chair that’s seen too much arse, gripping a zimmer frame as if it’s the only thing tethering her to this realm. She squints at me. “Who the fuck are you?” her expression says, even if her mouth doesn’t quite manage the words. “I’m here to reclaim my kitten,” I say, summoning authority I absolutely do not possess. And then — There he is. Pickle. Curled up in a tiny basket attached to the front of her zimmer frame, purring like he’s just unlocked the secret to happiness. Traitor. “Oh,” Ethel says softly, following my gaze. “You mean this little one.” “This little one,” I repeat, already stepping forward. “He’s brought me such joy,” she continues, her voice warming. “Would you like a cup of tea?” I open my mouth to decline. But somehow — I find myself sitting in her living room. The air smells faintly of lavender and time itself. The clock ticks loudly, as if measuring out the remaining seconds of her story. She makes the tea painfully slowly. And she talks. About her life. About the family she had. Or has. Technically. “They don’t visit,” she says lightly, stirring her tea. “Not much point, I suppose.” She gestures vaguely at the room. At herself. “I just… rattled around here,” she adds. “Until he came along.” She smiles at Pickle. Pickle purrs louder. Of course he does. It’s a lovely story. Truly. Heartwarming. Devastating. Wildly inconvenient. “Yeah,” I say eventually, standing, scooping Pickle up before my conscience can stage a full intervention. “I’m gonna need my Pickle back.” He looks at me. Then at her. Then back at me. Weighing his options, apparently. “Please don’t take him,” Ethel says suddenly, her hand shooting out — bony fingers wrapping around my arm with surprising strength. “He’s all I have.” And there it is. The moment. The one where I’m supposed to soften. To do the right thing. To recognise that loneliness doesn’t belong exclusively to me. I look at her. Really look. Then I glance back towards the street. Where my car is parked. Where my life is parked. Compact. Contained. Quietly falling apart. “And he’s all I have too,” I say, my voice smaller now. Which is when it hits me. Not like a revelation. Not like a lightning bolt. But like a slow, creeping truth that’s been waiting patiently for me to catch up. He isn’t. Not really. Pickle isn’t all I have. He’s just the last thing that proves I used to have more. I look down at him. At the way he’s leaning — just slightly — back towards Ethel. At the way he’s already chosen something warmer. Something steadier. Something… better. And I wonder — Have I been holding on to him… Or has he been holding on to me? I loosen my grip. Just a fraction. And in that tiny, almost imperceptible shift — Everything feels like it might finally let me go.