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Making A Will
Columnist Ian Whitwam tells us about the trials and tribulations of making a will....
 Ian Whitwam |
I’m living on the Edge. Flirting with Death. It seems to go with the job - teaching.
‘Teachers,’ says Bob from the Union, ‘are going down like ninepins.’
I have been finding it a bit tough lately. I conk out at staff meetings, I go into comas at Insets. I had the Paramedics in the North playground for the last one.
‘It’s called ‘Death In Service’ says Bob. ‘YOU MUST MAKE YOUR WILL!’
But that’s what old people do.‘You are Old People’ says the wife.
We summoned The Man from the Amicable. Teaching? Stressful. At fifty seven? Very stressful. In Ladbroke Grove? The Angel of Death is whispering. I’m a Dead Man Walking. ‘You’re High Risk. High Premium! YOU MUST MAKE YOUR WILL!’
We entered a netherworld of Testaments and Executors . It was worse than the National Curriculum. We began with Things Medical. The Amicable Man skipped through some of the more medieval diseases - Plague, Clots, Murmurs, Tumours, Syphilis and Lunacies. Nope. He ticked them off like a shopping list. I felt smug - and hopefully a bit cheaper.
And then Things Monetary. I zoomed up to the box in the attic and recovered a blizzard of payslips among the soccer programmes and scrapbooks.
Finally we broached Things Mortal. If I died tomorrow who would get the money? If Jill died tomorrow who would get the money? If we both went tomorrow who would get it? If one or more of our daughters died... Was this a quiz by Samuel Beckett?
He skipped through a few more scenarios most of which seemed to involve us being variously annihilated. I thought I’d trump him. ‘What if we all get blown to Kingdom Come?’ I breezed. Would the cat get lucky? ‘I’m glad you asked that’ said the Amicable Man. I might as well have said, ‘One or two sugars?’
I was feeling a bit wan. Much more of this and I might have passed out. Or On. Before I’d made the will....The Daughters were summoned. ‘When we die...’ They tried to look solemn and failed woefully. We spoke of Final Things - this struck them as a bit morbid. Of Executrices and Guardians - this struck them as a bit tedious. And of the rivers of Gold they could blow on trinkets and baubles and frocks and lace when we were no more....this struck them as a bit fascinating. These are Material Girls....
The Material Stuff is easy. It’s the Personal Stuff that’s tough. To whom do I leave the Jerry Lee Lewis Boxed set? My Penny Black? The Box of Beanos? Howlin’ Wolf’s autograph? Denis Law’s. The conkers from Kafka’s grave? The Chesham and District under 11 football winners medal? The Original Everlys’ Greatest Hits should go to my brother. After all, it is his - I nicked it years ago.
I could always indulge in some reckless philanthropy - a daily delivery of Caviar for the Cat. A Striker for QPR. A Windfall for the flower lady on the corner.... Or perhaps we could blow it all on a few terminal indulgences of our own.... that Wurlitzer Jukebox...some gangster suits or Gucci gowns. We could end our days in New Orleans in profligate and riotous Excess.. endless Gumbo and Absinthe and Swamp Music under the Sweet Magnolia Trees. Heaven on Earth. Death where is thy sting?
Stories of your dilemmas over making a will are
warmly received on the message boards...
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