On A Serious Note
My spouse came to me the other day with a serious look on her face and announced “We need to talk”. I mentally braced myself and looked up inquiringly. “We need to talk about our wills”. Okay. Not as bad as I thought. I can handle this without resorting to anything intoxicating.
Now, given my medical history, my age (74), the abuse I’ve subjected myself to over the years and the odds quoted in the actuarial tables, I really should have given the matter more thought. To be honest, the last time I even considered the subject was a while ago, like about about 40 years ago. I don’t think the children were even mentioned let alone conceived at the time.
It’s not that the thought has never crossed my mind. I have no illusions about this life or an afterlife. But once I’m gone, I’m gone and I have no intention of returning so don’t look for me. I once even considered the matter of Power Of Attorney, but was soon dissuaded, and quite rightly so, regarding some of the details I had in mind. I was naive.
There are people I care about and I should provide for them in some fashion. So it is time for a little estate planning. How were my assets, liabilities, debts and so on, going to be resolved once I no longer have any need of them? Don’t know. And when the inevitable occurs, I’m going to be in no position to offer an opinion one way or the other, or even care.
Now, as expected, my spouse had a plan. (She always has a plan, even selected a solicitor. ) The plan seemed reasonable, equitable and fair. I had no objections so all that was required was to nod my head and go back to my crossword puzzle.
In the matter of my final disposition, I require no more than a proper, riotous wake with plenty of booze and song and dance. Scatter my ashes as you see fit, just keep them out of dumps and landfill sites. Shed a respectful tear if you must, then get on with your life.
There. The Serious Note has been dealt with.