The Insurance Salesman.

The trouble started the moment you spot him marching up the path with the purposeful stride of a man who has rehearsed his pitch so many times he now dreams in actuarial tables. 

The insurance salesman was not deterred by weather, locked gates, or the presence of a large dog. He radiated the unstoppable energy of someone who has been told by management that today was “target day,” and who has therefore decided that you are the softest target in the ecosystem.

He opened with a handshake that could legally qualify as a minor earthquake. “Good afternoon!” he'd boom, as if announcing the arrival of a royal delegation. Before you could reply, he had already produced a glossy brochure depicting a smiling family who have clearly never experienced a single inconvenience in their lives, not even a slightly disappointing sandwich.

He tells you he’s here to talk about protection, which sounds faintly threatening, like he was running a Victorian racket. According to him, everything you own is moments away from catastrophic failure. Your house could collapse. Your car could explode. Your toaster could develop sentience and join a militant appliance uprising. He has a policy for all of these.

The salesman  let’s call him Gavin, because of course he is a Gavin flips open a binder the size of a medieval grimoire. Inside are charts, graphs, and diagrams illustrating every possible disaster that could befall a human being, including several that appear to involve livestock behaving unpredictably. One page features a man being struck by lightning while holding a rake. Another shows a woman falling into a sinkhole that has opened directly beneath her yoga mat. A third depicts a rogue canoe travelling at motorway speeds.

Gavin taps each scenario with a pen and says, “You never know.” This is the sacred mantra of his people. “You never know” is the reason he sleeps soundly at night while the rest of us lie awake wondering whether we should insure our ankles.

He asks whether you’ve considered volcano insurance. You remind him that you live in Britain, where the closest thing to volcanic activity is a teenager microwaving a Pot Noodle without removing the foil lid. Gavin nods gravely and says, “Yes, but you never know.” You begin to suspect he would sell avalanche insurance in the Sahara.

Then comes the personal risk assessment. Gavin asks questions no human should ever have to answer in their own kitchen. “How often would you say you stand near unstable shelving?” “Do you participate in any extreme sports, such as ironing?” “Have you ever been injured by a rogue goose?” You say no, but he writes “yes” anyway, because it improves his commission structure.

He moves on to add‑ons, which include:  

- Emotional support coverage for traumatised garden sheds  

- Accidental cult membership protection  

- A policy specifically for “unforeseen biscuit‑related incidents”  

You ask what counts as a biscuit‑related incident. Gavin says, “You never know.”

By this point, you are convinced that simply existing is a high‑risk activity. You begin to wonder whether you should take out a policy against the stress of hearing about all the policies you apparently need.

Eventually, Gavin closes his binder with the solemnity of a man concluding a funeral. “So,” he says, “shall we get you covered?” You tell him you need to think about it, which is British for “I would rather be chased by a swarm of bees than continue this conversation.” Gavin nods, hands you a stack of brochures thick enough to stop a bullet, and departs.

You still haven’t bought anything from him.  But you have insured the garden shed. Because and it pains you to admit this you never know.