Getting my life insured was another matter.
My parents had taken out a small policy in my name at birth,
and the ever-vigilant life insurance salesman saw a definite need
for greater coverage. He came around to our Hawthorn flat one
evening. I wasn't overly responsive at first, but his obviously rehearsed
speel seemed to make some sense.
"You've got to think of Anne, and how she would cope with
a mortgage, and kids ..."
We might as well hear him out, I thought.
"The policy turns into quite a money spinner after a few years,
but you should start now, or the dividends will be much smaller."
As the explanation continued, more and more we were sold.

Not on the deluxe package that he so strongly recommended,
but on a smaller, cheaper version. After the follow-up hard sell
failed, he relaxed, content with his less-than-perfect sale. He
removed contracts from his briefcase, and I sat marvelling at
the power of his type to burrow into your conscience.
We all sipped coffee as he filled in my form. Name, address,
date of birth, etc. down to the last section. He was just about
to conclude the deal with my signature, when he asked;
"You haven't suffered from any serious illness, have you?"
It was a confident question.
"Well,...Yes I have!" I responded.
"Leukaemia."
His face dropped. He was thrown.
"I ...Umm .., I don't know what effect this has on the policy.
I'll have to get back to you after I check."
Suddenly, he was keen to get home.
"I'm sure this doesn't change anything!"
He noted that I had been in remission for some time, and
was perfectly healthy, then left.

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