**Diary Entry A Ghostly Mother-in-Law**
Bloody hell, I swear I was just drifting off when
“Arthur! Arthur, wake uphonestly, youll sleep your whole life away like this.”
I groaned into my pillow. “Agnes, for heavens sake, its Sunday.”
“Sunday or not, youll have plenty of time to sleep when youre retired.”
“Or dead,” I muttered.
She huffed. “Get up, wash your face, shavesort yourself out. Youve got time.”
“Time for what, Agnes?”
“For *living*, you daft sod.”
Grumbling, I dragged myself to the bathroom. If I didnt, shed lob a slipper at meghost or not, Agnes had perfect aim.
“Arthur,” she called, suddenly perched cross-legged on my bed like some ethereal yogi, “did I ever tell you I can *hear* your thoughts? No? Well, now you know. Go on, scrub properlyyou look like youve been sleeping in a hedge.”
Arguing was pointless. Alive or dead, Agnes always won.
Yes, *dead*. My ex-mother-in-law had taken up residence in my flat after her funeral. No, I wasnt mad or drunkjust haunted.
“I *hear* you, Arthur,” she said, floating closer. “Most of the time. How my Margaret ever put up with you, Ill never know. Youre a relic, you are.”
I waved her off and reached for my razor.
Margaret had left me a year agokids grown, lives moved on. Shed called me a “tyrant,” said I stifled her “personal growth,” tossed her things in a bag, and slammed the door. When I rang her, shed hissed words like “misogynist” and “Neanderthal.” Bloody ridiculous. How was I supposed to *not* build houses if I was a *builder*?
And her new life coach, some bloke named *Eustace Wonderly*who even names their kid that?had filled her head with nonsense. Said Id trapped her, forced her to make shepherds pies and Sunday roasts.
Though, God, her roast potatoes
A thought struck me mid-shave. I bolted into the hallway, half my face still lathered.
“Agnes! Agnes!”
“What now? You sound like a foghorn.”
“Agnes, teach me to make your shepherds pie. Please.”
“Ha! As if Id hand over *my* recipe!”
“What, you gonna cook for the angels?”
“Cheeky devil.”
“Margarets pie is better than yours anyway.”
“*What?* She learned from *me*!”
“Learned and improved.”
Agnes gasped, her ghostly form rippling. “You take that back! She uses *lamb**lamb!*when it should be *beef*!”
“Bet youd say it has to be *this* dish too, not *that* one.”
“Of *course* its *this* onethe glaze!”
Two hours later, I sat at the kitchen table, clean-shaven, spooning the most glorious shepherds pie into my mouth.
“Agnes youre a genius.”
“What about *Margarets* pie?”
“Pfft. Not even close.”
“Youyou *wretch*.”
I blinked. “Are you crying? Can ghosts cry?”
“Dunno,” she sniffed. “But you, Arthur Higgins, are a *rotten* man.”
“Me? Whatd I do *now*?”
“Called me Mum. Thirty years married to my girl, never once called me that.”
I shrugged. “Dunno. Felt right.”
She let out a wail and vanished into the wardrobe, where she sobbed theatrically. I smirked and got to tidying.
“Not like *that*use the *blue* cloth, Arthur, honestly”
***
Margaret hadnt slept well. Shed dreamt of Mumyoung, radiant, reaching for her.
She tried to watch Eustace Wonderlys latest video, but it wouldnt load. When she rang him, a groggy voice snarled, “Who the *hell* calls at seven in the morning?” before slamming the line dead.
Shaken, she drove to Arthurs. She didnt know why.
***
She found us playing chess, laughing.
“Youve lost the plot,” she muttered, watching Arthur move pieces against thin air.
“Margaret! Your mums turnaha! Checkmate!”
The pieces *moved on their own.*
“You look well,” she said warily.
“Mum says youve lost weight. Hungry? Shepherds pie*her* recipe.”
“Arthur whats *wrong* with you?”
“Wrong? Never better. Mums teaching me her steak-and-ale pie next.”
“Arthur, *Mums dead*.”
“Aye. And shes been haunting me a year.”
Margaret paled. “Prove it.”
So Agnes didanswering every secret only she and Margaret knew.
“*Mum?*” Margaret whispered as Agnes flickered in and out.
“Shes fading,” Arthur said. “But she wanted you happy. Wanted *us* happy. Agnes*wait*!”
Then she was gone.
***
We woke screaming.
“Margaret?”
“Arthur? Did you just dream that”
“Mum was a ghost? Aye.”
“and I left you for a *life coach*?”
A fist hammered the door.
“Up, you layabouts! Days wasting!”
We stared.
“*Mum?!*”
Agnes scowled. “As if Id haunt *you*. Margaret, stop filling your head with nonsense. Arthur, youre learning steak-and-ale pie. Were going to the *cottage*.”
As she marched off, I whispered, “Why *didnt* I call you Mum all those years?”
Agnes paused. “Dunno. But youd better keep it up.”
And just like that, lifeodd as it wascarried on.
