The Unfortunate Afterlife of Clive

(A cautionary tale in three and a half miscalculations.)

Clive Thackery died on a Thursday, which annoyed him greatly. He had specifically requested Wednesday, on account of bin collection and his preference not to be outlived by his wheelie bin.

Unfortunately, his request was ignored by the relevant departments — namely his heart and, to a lesser extent, gravity — both of which failed him spectacularly halfway through a half-hearted attempt at DIY.

His wife, Maureen, discovered him sprawled beneath the downstairs toilet with a spanner in one hand and a deeply unflattering expression on his face.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Clive,” she muttered. “I told you that pipe wasn’t looking at you funny.”

To her credit, she called an ambulance. To her detriment, she also called Sheila from her bridge club.

“Is he… you know?” Sheila asked, prodding Clive’s sock. “Either that or he’s finally taken up yoga,” Maureen replied.

The paramedics were unconvinced by either theory and took him away, muttering about “intermediate rigor” and “bloody amateur plumbing.”

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Chapter Two: Mostly Dead

To the surprise of nearly everyone, including Clive, he woke up three days later in a refrigerated drawer at the morgue. Naked. Cold. And very much not cremated.

His first words, hoarse and offended, were:

“If this is heaven, it’s got appalling climate control.”

A junior technician fainted. A senior technician swore. The coroner insisted on a tea break.

“Not doing undead paperwork without biscuits,” he said firmly. “Not after last time.”

Clive was given a blanket, a scalding cup of tea, and a brochure titled “So You’ve Been Declared Legally Deceased: A Citizen’s Guide.”

“It says here I have to reapply for my National Insurance number.” “That’s if you’re planning to rejoin the workforce,” the coroner replied. “I’ve just come back from the dead, not lost all sense,” Clive snapped.

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Chapter Three: Back from the Dead (and Banned from Tesco)

Maureen opened the door holding a mop.

“You’re dead,” she said flatly. “I got better,” said Clive. “You’re dripping on the doormat.”

By the time she let him in, she’d already donated his fishing gear, cancelled his dentist, and sold his favourite reclining armchair to Barry from next door — whom she had suspiciously begun calling “Baz.”

“It was my chair, Maureen.” “You weren’t using it.” “I was dead.” “Exactly.”

The Church refused to update his gravestone until he could prove “sustained reanimation.” The bank froze his accounts “pending metaphysical clarification.”

Tesco banned him outright after an unfortunate incident involving the self-checkout, three packets of custard creams, and a startled bishop.

“It scanned me,” Clive protested. “You leaned on it,” said the store manager. “And it asked me to place myself in the bagging area!”

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Epilogue: Quietly Alive

Clive eventually moved into the shed. Not a shed. The shed — his pride and joy, his Fortress of Lawnitude.

He rigged up a kettle, a transistor radio, and a deckchair with a suspicious stain. He lived out his remaining days stubbornly alive, technically illegal, and quietly judging anyone who misused a spanner.

“If I die again,” he said to no one in particular, “I’m taking Maureen’s bloody geraniums with me.”