My dead grandfather introduced me to my insurance broker
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 Saturday of the funeral was a glorious day in every way. The early September Spring was evident in the air, the light, the blossoms on the trees, the skip in peoples’ steps and the smiles on their faces. Of course, the closer we got to the church, we were all walking as the day was too beautiful too be caged in vehicles, the more downturned expressions became and legs grew heavy as they began to almost shuffle towards the church. The mood began to pall and I looked around hoping to spot my insurance broker, of course I still didn’t know he was an insurance broker at this point.
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.
James never did learn not to approach me announced I’m glad to say and over the years we’ve visited that same church many times over, Our wedding, our second wedding, all marriages have their rough spots, and then the christenings of our eight beautiful boys. The triplets are having a joint wedding next month and everybody is very excited. Of all the things my grandfather left me, I am most grateful for my insurance broker.
