There are few things certain in life ‘except death and taxes’, as Benjamin Franklin famously observed in 1789. 

Let me add to that ‘the inevitable need to navigate the household insurance maze’ and ‘the pain of persuading the TV licensing authorities that no, your mother-in-law really doesn’t need a license because she left this earth for that big TV sofa in the sky well over a year ago’. 

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‘The house is empty,’ we want to say, if only someone would listen, ‘save for carpets and cobwebs. And there really is nothing TV-related left to see — apart from the increasingly deranged letters landing like orange confetti on what was once her doormat.

‘What more do we have to do to persuade you this really is a lost cause? How much more taxpayers’ money do you need to spend on the administrative effort, paperwork, postage and apparently super-efficient enforcement officers?’

We’d cancelled by phone, very soon after her death, noting on the associated letter regarding their recent inability to take a direct debit from her frozen account: ‘ No further action required’. 

But those letters just keep coming. Okay they took her name off the top, restyling it first as ‘present occupier’ then ‘legal occupier’. 

‘We’d like to stop writing to you’, it says, in the small print on the back of each letter. 

Do these people not understand how long it takes to crawl through the soul-sapping process of probate? Not to mention selling a house.

For several months after her death, it went quiet. And why wouldn’t it? We’d done what we needed to do. Until November last year. ‘You could be at risk of breaking the law’, they said. In red. 

We were back to black ink, and a softer approach, the following month with the warning that ‘ignoring this letter could cost you a lot more than the license fee’. A court appearance could cost ‘over £1000’. Plus legal costs. 

Clearly still not making their case, in January, it was a different tack. ‘Will you be in on 16th February?’ they asked. Politely. ‘You should expect a visit from an enforcement officer’, they said. Adding, with a noticeable change in writing style and a plethora of full points, that their officers visit an address ‘every ten seconds. Day. Evening. Even weekends. And if no one answers, they can come back’.

In February, we learned that they had authorised an enforcement visit. In March, it was back to the red ink for ‘Official notice: investigation opened’. By April the property was ‘under investigation’. In May, as nobody had bothered responding to any of their letters, they were left with ‘no alternative but to proceed with the final stages of their investigation’. And in June, they gave ten days to ‘get correctly licensed’. No doubt as I type, July’s letter is languishing on the doormat. In a house that NOBODY LIVES IN!

Whether an enforcement officer ever visited isn’t clear but surely, if they had, a cursory glance into the furniture-free void on the other side of the window would tell them all they need to know. I mean I’ve heard of minimal living, but this is complete absence of life. Literally.

Our fingers are crossed that the sale of what was Mother Gremlin’s treasured family home for nearly forty years is almost over the finishing line. But I worry for the new owners, who may find themselves wrestled to the floor by triumphant TV Licensing heavies before they’ve so much as unpacked the remote.

And then there’s insurance…

This time, very much for the living. 

The annual renewal came through from the insurer we’ve used for several years. It’s risen steadily over that time but, to be honest, I couldn’t be bothered girding these old loins for several rounds of hearing how important my phone call was whilst listening to someone else’s favourite playlist on repeat. 

Until this year, when a cheery email arrived from another insurer. Let’s just say they sell themselves as looking after the ‘over-fifties’.

‘We insure your car’, they said, ‘choose our home insurance too.’ For just £109.20. 

And you’d think, wouldn’t you, having worked an entire career in the wily world of advertising bullshit, I’d have known better. But no. Hook, line and sinker.

So I logged into my account, keyed in the ‘free quote number’ and, there it was: £109.20. Except, having worked my way down the various tick boxes and disclaimers to the point of purchase (with not a single parameter changed), the screen refreshed: £129.00.

Still cheaper than my existing insurer, but it by then being later in the evening, I decided to wait till morning. Buyer beware and all that. Meanwhile, an email landed in my inbox confirming that revised quote.

First thing next day, I logged back in. So far so good: £129.00 still there, with (reassuringly) two weeks left on the quote. But, hang on, what was this in the small print? The actual price ‘you will be charged is £141.51’. Eh?

So I went back through all my responses, just to check again that nothing had changed, all the way to ‘Buy now’. The screen refreshed: £250.75. Actual charge: £275.07. And no sign of that earlier quote in my account, despite its stated two weeks’ validity.

From £109.20 to £275.07 in the space of 24 hours. So much for loyalty.

‘Give them a call,’ says the Gremlin. ‘It might be fault on their system.’ Ever the ingenu.

Ten minutes into someone else’s playlist, I spoke to a very nice woman who pressed play again – twice — while she spoke to her supervisor. Before very apologetically passing on the message that, essentially, it was ‘tough luck pal, snooze and you lose’.

At which point, I am happy to report I turned to Mr Meerkat (other comparison sites are available), got a far better quote with better cover and no credit-card extras hidden in the small print. Job done.

Which should have been the end of the story. Until the following morning, a mere 48 hours since the beginning of this entire illuminating exercise, when a letter dropped through the letterbox from said insurer. 

‘We insure your car’, they said, ‘choose our home insurance too. For just £109.20.’

To which I responded with a rather less polite version of ‘tough luck pal, snooze and you lose’.