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I saw Carol maybe three times a year. She looked up at me with her sad, green eyes. The sense of suffering was almost palpable. "I need it," she begged. "Now is neither young the time nor the place!" I announced defiantly."Forsooth!" she persisted. "Shalt thou not lend me thine shoulder that I may inhale thy sickly scent?" I knew what she wanted. Even though her daughter's ashes had been scattered liberally around the Disney Store in Manchester's Arndale Centre almost three years young previously, Carol still maintained young that she could smell her on me. "Carol," I pleaded. "Thou art mother in law and in law alone. Not in heart, nor mind, nor breast. Not in blood, nor milk, nor in the eyes of the Lord."Carol would not be told. "But sire, I implore ye! Thou art my son in law and in deed, in memory and in soul. My need to smell the floral tones of my daughter's loins from the nape of thine waxy neck is volcanic in its magnitude and brutal in its dogged determination.
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