“Have you thought about your life insurance lately Mrs Whittle?” the bank teller asked me this morning.
I’ve got to be honest: I don’t do conversation on Monday mornings. Especially not before 10am. Just give me the cash. I’ve got a decorator waiting to be paid, and I need to get to Caffe Nero before I slip into a coma.
I try not to make eye contact: “Erm, not really, but I’ve got some, thanks.”
She’s decided today is the day to bring up the possibility of my untimely death. “What if something was to happen to you or your husband? Is your little one provided for? We’ve got some GREAT deals at the moment on critical illness.”
Oh God. She’s still talking. “Well, I’ll have a look but I think the policy I have does that.”
“Do you need to discuss it with your husband?” Yeah, because obviously THAT’S what’s stopping me from taking out a new insurance policy at 9.10am on a Monday morning.
“I don’t have a husband, thanks.”
She looks at me like my dog just died. Or maybe like I just confessed to having herpes. “Oh, I am sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I had one, he was a bit rubbish, really.” Really, I must stop saying the first thing that pops into my head.
She decides it would be kindest to gloss over the awkwardness I must be experiencing in confessing my single status. “Would you prefer 10s or 20s?”
Just in case you’re wondering, YES, Flea does have this t-shirt. And she’s so wearing it next time we go to the bank.