Last Will and Testament

I, Tremahn Bremain, hereby vouch that I am of sound mind and body at the time of the construction of this document, hereafter referred to as The Will, on the 12th of July 2005.

Firstly I would like to bequeath my entire comics collection to my best friend Janice. Well, I say best friend, she was probably the best friend I have had during the miserable time I’ve spent on Earth, so still qualifies for the title. I haven’t seen her since 1986, but I think she’s still alive. She liked comics. Even the shitty ones I collect. If she likes them she can read them before selling them and buying a desert island upon which to live. I hope that she thinks of me, when she does so.

Mixy should have my cars. I have loved her since she was an baby, and I don’t think she’s ever understood that. I don’t know if she’ll appreciate the sports cars, but I think she was always fond of the classics. I wonder if she’ll be old enough to drive when I eventually kick the bucket?

My brother Hamish, will no doubt be salivating at the thought of getting something after I die. The lazy shit has done nothing with himself since Ma and Pa left us both orphans, so very long ago now. I have decided to leave him my portfolio of exotic stock options. At time of writing it is currently worth somewhere in the region of seventy five million pounds. There is, however a condition to this sudden and uncharacteristic generosity: he will only be allowed access to these financial instruments when he can calculate their exact worth, with absolutely no assistance. This, of course, requires him to master extremely complicated, and entirely uninteresting, mathematical principals, and as I seem to recall he had trouble remembering his six times table. My good friend, Dr Willis Smarthem PhD will decide whether or not he has succeeded, when Hamish finally grows the balls to attempt the challenge.

For this dubious privilege, Dr Smarthem should be compensated annually by an amount equal to one hundred thousand pounds, after adjustment for inflation.

To my wife of seventeen years, I give my second best gargoyle. It should be easily prised from the front of the fifty-six-bedroom mansion we have shared for the last decade or so. And of course the proceeds from the sale of the house should go to the local cats’ home, in recognition for the great job they did of looking after my darling Mixy when she ran away last summer.

My son, or should I say Hamish’s son, can have everything else. His mother’s cold-hearted and drunken infidelity is not his fault. He must never, on any occasion, however spend a penny of this inheritance on her. Not even a cup of tea. In the event of disobedience of this clause, everything goes to the cat’s home.

I would ask that my wife and son, brother Hamish, Dr Smarthem and Mixy are all present at the reading of The Will, and that their


reactions be recorded on video tape.


B. Tremain

Note to lawyer – would it be better if I named the cats’ home, to be more specific? If so, could you please look it up for me? Thanks. Trem. X

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David Baillie is a freelance writer and artist. Born almost thirty years ago in Scotland, he now lives and works in the East End of London.

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