The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock

by Jane Riley

her hand fondling places that hadn’t been fondled in ages, as if she were rummaging in an attic that needed airing.

I loved it when she was happy and not tripping over moods or being bossy and demanding. Just simply happy.

It was a door-slamming-in-your-face moment like the ones you watch in television sitcoms that you think don’t actually happen in real life. Well, it happened to me then and I was left swallowing a whoosh of air and a giant gulp of bewilderment.

My heart swelled like the liver of a fattened goose destined for foie gras.

I don’t want my mother doing it – organising my funeral, that is. She organised my wedding and my birth, booking herself in for a Caesarean after the first trimester on the basis that her work diary was already filling up and she needed a set time.’

Gladness rose up from my belly and filled my cheeks like an extra-large serving of raspberry jelly and ice cream.

Mum’s continual bulk purchase of tissue boxes meant storage space was often at a premium and places where you wouldn’t normally find tissues became suitable receptacles – spare coffins, empty mortuary chambers, the fridge.

Edie greeted me with the energy of someone who liked having a front door painted bright yellow and probably owned other things in the same colour.

This realisation only made me cry more. I was a yacht in a storm, a speeding car veering off the road, cake batter in a mixer.

soulmate wasn’t any old soul who happened to turn up and fill a hole.

being single and lonely was better than being taken and unhappy.