I need to speak to the account holder

Just over twenty six years ago I was sent home from work because during my lunch break I'd turned into a sobbing bowl of jelly. My father in law had died. I had been fine, that is sad but really fine, not perfectly fine, up until that point. His death was a shock and my mother-in-law, the Long Suffering Husband and his sister could barely function. The funeral arrangements were made, as if we were wading through treacle but it was all over in little more than a week and our jobs were to try to get on with life as best as we could. The LSH continued swimming through treacle, his sister couldn't look at him without crying because of the family resemblance and his mum's heart broke. I organised things. I spoke to the banks and utility companies, listened and made cake.  It was one lunchtime, on the phone to someone like British Gas that tipped me over the edge.

"I'm ringing to let you know that my father in law has died."

"Oh, right."

I felt myself tensing up. This was the thirtieth such call I'd made in the last few lunchtimes and I was beginning to wonder if anyone working in any of these places had an ounce of humanity.

I explained that although the bill had been in his name my mother in law was still living in the property and so would like the title and first initial to be changed. 

"I'm sorry, I can only speak to the account holder," said the gum chewing imbecile on the other end.

The conversation continued. I struggled to stay calm for a further five minuets, explaining carefully that I was just trying to find out if they needed me to send a death certificate to change the name but nothing else did. The twit continued to insist on speaking to the account holder.

"Good luck with that, then," I erupted. "Unless you've got some kind of special clairvoyant powers then you can't speak to him because he is dead, gone, passed away, deceased, no more, dead, dead, DEAD!" I admit that I was shouting and by now sobbing.

When my mother in law died, nine years later I thought things had improved slightly. There were bereavement officers to talk to, who seemed to at least understand the word 'died''.

It turns out that many companies are no better. 

My mum, being brilliant and strong, has been trying to deal with much of this stuff herself and had had a bank's bereavement officer insist that they can only tell the account holder what direct debits were held (so she doesn't accidentally have her phone cut off). The TV licensing people have managed to change the name on the account to a completely different name. When mum rang them they insisted they were right and demanded to know who the person was. The conversation became quite heated with a refusal on their part to admit to a mistake. 

I try to see things from the other point of view. I know these people have jobs to do. Probably not ones that they like very much but I wish they could do it with a bit more compassion.