An 80yearold woman with striking blue hair sits in a solicitors office, tapping her feet against the polished floor.
What brings you here today? the solicitor asks.
Just a will, she replies.
Very well. Go ahead, he says, as she settles into the stiff chair and begins to dictate.
I instruct that, after Im dead, my brain be sent to the Institute of Neurological Research. If the institute refuses, they may claim it as belonging to my late mother, Clara Peterson. All my cats that are still with me at the time of my death are to be given to my friends. Should I have no friends left, the cats shall pass to my son. Any books that no one wants are to be donated to the public library, though I strongly urge someone to at least leaf through them. Three years ago I misplaced the page where I hid the £5,000; I cant recall which volume it is in. I bequeath to my son that my ashes be scattered on the hill at Whitby in North Yorkshire
The solicitor swallows.
Excuse me, where exactly?
At Whitby, at Whitby
But thats miles away! Why such a complication?
The complication is his ninetofive and a onehour lunch break. He never leaves the office because of that. I was the same once. I regret it now. He still has his whole life ahead. Travel brightens a soul. It changes a man. He wont return to the person he once was. Let him cross half the country. I want to see him sit back at his desk! Theres no way Ill drag him back there. He just needs a nudge, proof that another life exists. Thats what Ill do after Im gone And I dont want to rot in the earth. Its better to fly to Whitby
The solicitor tightens his lips.
Next, the old lady continues, I want my beloved cat, Marmalade, to be cremated with me, like the old customs Im only joking! Im merely teasing you because you look so serious.
Scare me? he asks.
Shake you up, she smiles.
It worked. Now, the assets? Movable? Immovable?
Give the terraced house and the motorcycle to my son. Truth be told, I dont own a motorcycle yet, but Ive enrolled in a riding course and will buy one soon, so note that as well And I bequeath my scooter to Steven Nichols, if hes still alive. Hes been eyeing it for ages. When we rode together he broke his own, crashed into a hedge
When the old woman finally leaves, the solicitor calls a short recess. Her image with the blue hair keeps looping in his mind. He rereads the will, rubs his eyes to be sure its real, glances at the towering stack of papers, then grabs his phone.
Megan, hey, I was wondering if youd like to get away somewhere. You know, Ive always dreamed of going to Africa
