Kipper groaned as the door swung open and the odour of cooking hit him in the face like a sock full of rocks.
"Beetle oil," he muttered under his breath. "Again with the beetle oil."
He leaned out of the door to take a deep breath of fresh(ish) air and then closed and locked it behind him. He slung his coat and his bag on the floor and marched off to the kitchen.
Ham was singing in the kitchen, his voice an out of tune screech that set Kipper's teeth on edge.
"Why are you using beetle oil to cook with?" Kipper bellowed in an attempt to drown out the dreadful sound, as much as expecting an answer to his question.
"It's all we've got," Ham replied. "And it's good for you."
"So say you. I've seen how they make that shit. There is nothing healthy about it, believe me. And it makes the food taste like mould." Ham shrugged and pointed at the black walls.
"I think it's the mould that makes the food taste like mould," he said.
...
