The day was like any other day in the previous two months, mundane tasks punctuated with shattering pain and anguish as the memories of those last few weeks of my wife’s life came flooding back. No matter how hard I worked, cleaning, polishing, vacuuming, gardening or some such other chore, the nightmare was always there, in the background. It was ready to catch me unawares in a rare moment of idleness, flooding through my body like a medieval contagion.

During one such emotional immersion, I was brought to my senses by a raucous banging coming from the hall. Something was striking the door but it certainly wasn’t human, the hollow insistent thump of wood on wood was disconcerting considering we had a doorbell and a brass door knocker. I left my wallowing to investigate the racket, looking up at the leaded window of the front door. No blurred shadow meant that the perpetrator was less than five feet tall or had turned on their heels in a prank. Not so the latter, as the rapping began again in earnest to the point where I feared for the integrity of the front door.

On opening up, I looked down expecting to see the empty space vacated by the pranksters. However, occupying this slot on our step stood a diminutive crone waving the wrong end of an umbrella at the space previously occupied by my front door. Unfortunately that location was now inhabited by me meaning that I received several of the blows meant for the door.

“Jesus, woman, what on earth!” The words were frozen in the air by a carefully aimed, and this time intentional, thwack with the brolly.

“Language, young man, do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” she warbled pointing the rolled up black cosh at me like a Victorian duelist.

Gathering my composure, I studied the pint-sized assailant for the first time, now that I wasn’t preoccupied by fending off blows. Wearing a full length orange wool coat which exposed only her head and the toes of her polished leather court shoes, she resembled an abandoned traffic cone. Her head, the only clue as to her identity was topped off with a dollop of white cotton wool like hair on which nestled a small black pill box hat.

This was fastened to the white clump with a hat pin the size of an ice pick, (I unconsciously pictured her brandishing it in the checkout queue at Sainsbury’s like a diminutive Errol Flynn). The thought fetched a wry smile to my face which was erased by another blow with the makeshift cudgel.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” the hag demanded, “my niece wouldn’t have kept me standing here and she would have answered the door today, not tomorrow.” All at once, it came to me, the voice, simulating a Curlew on a Northumbrian moor, the face, straight from the cast of Macbeth and her reference to her niece. It was my late wife’s only surviving aunt, an octogenarian holocaust of a woman, Edwina Guilty!

“Sorry Aunty G, step right in and let me take your….case?” my voice trailed off at the sight of the huge black suitcase, the size of a bungalow, which had been hidden behind her.

“Aunty Guilty, if you don’t mind, young man, I’ll just go and pop the kettle on.” She breezed through the hall as if she was on castors, one finger trailing along the wood panelling as she went. Arriving at the kitchen she inspected the index finger with her current bun eyes and with a loud “tut” rubbed the finger and her thumb together in my direction. “Two weeks worth of dust there, she wouldn’t have let that happen.” I followed the old dear down the hall dragging the weighty bag behind me.

Far from addressing the tea making, she proceeded to carry out a full inspection of the kitchen including cupboards, benches, sink, cooker and fridge. The tutting got progressively louder like a sparrow calling for its mate. “Tea Aunty?”, I wheezed, leaving my newly acquired burden in the hall.

“As I said,” she confirmed, “strong, black, one sugar.”

I proceeded with my new tea ritual, beginning with warming the teapot and lifting down my favourite organic Assam loose leaf from the cupboard.

“Erm, excuse me, where’s the M&S Gold? Or have you let that slip as well?” she piped up, slamming the fridge door and rubbing her hands in a mock washing motion. As she peered through the window blind, I knew what was coming next. “Is that a garden out there or a nature reserve?”

“I’ve just applied weed and feed, Aunty,” I replied weakly.

“And the borders? You were never a plant person. As long as the grass was cut,” she countered. I could see that this was a battle I was never going to win. Turning my attention to refreshments, I managed to find a couple of round teabags in the caddy and abandoned the teapot.

“Are you off somewhere nice Aunty?” I enquired, trying not to sound so hopeful.

“Well, if you can call spending time putting you right, then yes and for some time too, by the looks of it. What’s happened to the fridge, is it broken or something and where are the groceries?” She was obviously referring to the depleted state of cupboards and fridge as I had spent the last two months living off their contents.

“I thought I would use some stuff up, considering a nuclear attack wasn’t imminent Aunty,” referring to my late wife’s familial hoarding habits.

“Don’t be so clever, you mean you’re too lazy to go to the shops,” came the barbed reply.

Tea made and remaining biscuits arranged on a plate, we retired to the dining room. Aunty finally dispensed with her coat, thrusting it in my direction as she inspected this space in minute detail.

“Is the Hoover broken son?” She mocked. Not even bothering to answer, I concluded that this was going to be a long visit and I was right.

Over the proceeding weeks, months and years, the little witch pointed out every tiny flaw in my existence, revelling in each fault and delighting in my misery. Nothing I did counted for a handful of beans, according to the diminutive ogress. I might as well cease to exist because, after all, the wrong partner had died in this marriage.