At the age of twenty three I had never really come to face with tragedy in any shape or form and had lived an enormously protected and safe life till then having yet to have any dealings with insurance brokers and their ilk. It all changed when my grandfather, finally, after months and months of truly excruciating pain and suffering and the endless litany of bedsores and bedpans that accompanies illness, succumbed and died. He had been a wonderful man and an awe-inspring if somewhat terrifying grandfather and I felt his loss, my first death dearly. But one must move on. However the peculiarity of death then began to emerge. After the publication of a death notice, awfully close to an advert for a strip club catering exclusively for insurance brokers I might add, and the realisation that most things in life are for sale, I felt a subtle shift in the universe.
I was almost immediately inundated with phone calls and it all spiraled out of control when the paper published the details of my inheritance, having forgotten temporarily all about privacy laws it seems. I got phone calls from lawyers who wanted to write my will, which I found terribly insensitive in the circumstances, struggling entrepreneurs who wanted funding for vague and impossible ideas, and even a three year old girl who begged me to buy her a puppy. I said no of course. And then, interrupting the chaos, I answered the phone to hear the sweet melodious sound of my first of the insurance brokers. His name was James Dickity-Jones and I sensed an automatic allure calling me to accept his polite invitation to a country picnic after the funeral on Saturday. Oh yes, it appeared that James’s grandfather and mine had been the greatest of friends for decades so I knew I’d be safe.
The strangest weather greeted me when I woke that Saturday morning and presented enormous difficulties as to the correct choice of insurance broker, I mean funeral, clothes. It was intermittently raining cats and dogs, perhaps I should tell that pesky little girl to go and catch one, and as clear as a sunny day in Spain. To be honest the thought of the funeral made me want to slit my wrists, but I simply had to remind myself that I would be seeing my insurance broker there as well and I managed to pull myself together as the church grew closer and closer.
Dispirited I approached the cobblestone steps to the quaint little church in which my father had also married my mother, his second wife, and out of nowhere I felt a slight gentle pressure on my right elbow. Restraining the impulse to slap away the invading hand, I looked up to the face it belonged to and knew at once that I had found the perfect insurance broker for me.
Although James died only two years later and was put to rest in the very same church as Gramps, I had the best two years of my life with my first insurance broker. Of course, when James died, the phone started ringing again, and tomorrow I’ll be marrying John, my second insurance broker.
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