**Diary Entry A Ghostly Mother-in-Law**
Bloody hell, just when I thought I could sleep in
“Vincent! Vincent, wake up! Youll sleep your whole life away if I let you.”
I groaned into my pillow. “Agatha Margaret, for pitys sake, let a man rest.”
“Rest? Youll rest when youre dead. Up you get!”
“Or maybe Ill rest *after* Im dead,” I muttered, rubbing my tired eyes in the mirror.
She tsked. “Look at the state of you. Go wash up, shave, make yourself presentable. Theres still time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for *something*. Now move!”
Grumbling, I shuffled to the bathroom before she lobbed a slipper at my headagain. Bloody woman. Even as a ghost, she was relentless.
Yes, *ghost*. My ex-mother-in-law, Agatha Margaret, had taken up residence in my flat after her funeral. Not that Id gone mad or hit the bottle too hardshe just appeared one day, floating about, criticising my life choices.
“Vincent,” she called, drifting into a cross-legged hover by my bed. “I *can* hear your thoughts, you know. Honestly, how did my Emily ever live with you? Youre a proper dinosaur, you are.”
I waved her off and headed to the sink.
Emily and I divorced last year. The kids were grown, off living their own lives. Shed called me a “domestic tyrant,” packed a bag, and slammed the door on her way out. Id rung her later, baffled, only for her to accuse me of being a “misogynist relic.” Me! A simple builder who liked a proper Sunday roast.
The worst part? Shed gotten it into her head after bingeing some self-help guruBliss bloody Evermore or some such nonsense. Said Id stifled her potential, forced her to make bangers and mash like some 1950s housewife.
*(Though, God, her roast potatoes were divine)*
Halfway through shaving, a mad thought struck me. I bolted into the hallway, razor still in hand.
“Agatha Margaret! Teach me to make your beef stew. Please.”
She scoffed. “As if Id hand over *my* recipe!”
“Why not? Its not like youre using it up *there*.”
“Cheeky sod!”
“Besides, Emilys was better.”
Her ghostly form flickered. “*Better?* I taught her everything! What cut does she even use?”
“Lamb, obviously.”
“*Lamb?!* You philistineits *beef*! And never in *that* potthe blue one!”
Two hours later, I had a bubbling stew and a notebook full of instructions. Sitting at the table, I took a bite.
“Christ Mum, youre a genius.”
“What was that?”
“This stew. Emilys doesnt come close.”
She made a strangled noise. “*Mum?* You rotten little”
“Wait, are you *crying*? Ghosts can cry?”
“Dunno,” she sniffed. “But youre a right piece of work, Vincent.”
“Me? Whatd I do now?”
“Nothing. Just called me *Mum*, didnt you?” She wavered, then vanished into the wardrobe, wailing like a banshee.
I sighed and got to tidying.
“Not like that! Use the *yellow* cloth, Vincenthonestly!”
***
Meanwhile, Emily hadnt slept well. Shed dreamt of her motheryoung, radiant, reaching for her.
She tried calling Bliss Evermore for guidance, but the line crackled to life with a roar: “Who the *hell* rings at six in the morning?!”
Emily slammed the laptop shut. That wasnt Bliss.
For reasons she couldnt explain, she drove to my flat.
She found me playing chess against thin air, laughing.
“Lost the plot, have you?” she muttered, watching the pieces move on their own.
“Emily! Your mums about to checkmate meaha! Too slow!”
Her face paled. “Vince are you alright?”
“Never better. Fancy some stew? Your mums recipe.”
“Vince *what* mum?”
“The one whos lived with me all year. Ghost, apparently.”
Emilys eyes welled. “Prove it.”
So I did.
“Ask her something only you two would know.”
“Mum what secret did I tell you when I was eight?”
A pause. Then, through me: “That you fancied the butchers boy.”
Emily nearly fainted.
One by one, she fired off questionsher first tooth, her prams colour, Auntie Mabelall answered perfectly.
Then, just for a second, she *saw* her.
Agatha Margaret flickered like a dying bulb before fading completely.
“Vince was that real?”
I woke with a gasp. Emily bolted upright beside me.
“Vince?”
“Emily?”
A fist pounded the door.
“Up, you layabouts! Were going to the cottage. Vince, youre learning to cook. Emily, no more of this guru rubbish.”
We stared.
“Agatha Margaret youre *alive*?”
She snorted. “Course I am. Now movebefore I fetch my slipper.”
As we scrambled up, she paused.
“Vincent whyd you never call me Mum in thirty years?”
I grinned. “Dunno *Mum*.”
She threw a slipper anyway.
