The Importance of Having Henry

A few weeks ago I was chatting to a friend about confronting your imminent death*, as you do, and she mentioned that when the doctor she saw after a holiday accident had asked about her will, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something elegantly simple, like “All to husband. Talk to Henry.” Henry, you see, was not her husband, but her Accountant; she was confident that he’d have a handle on things.

I was overcome with profound Henry envy. I wanted a Henry. I wanted an Accountant. Now, I have previously had dealings with accountants, once or twice; useful as it can sometimes be to have someone file your tax return, I’ve never been enormously impressed with their usefulness. Fill in form, take cheque, seemed to be the order of the day. But I always suspected that there was a difference between an accountant and an Accountant. This conversation seemed to confirm that.

I am pleased to report that I seem to have acquired a Henry***. A nice chap who responded to my initial enquiry (“I have three income streams and messy records, can you sort out HMRC for me?”) with enthusiasm and offers of free Financial Advice from other members of his firm, a six-year review of my taxation history, and so forth. Better yet, he is getting someone to take a look at my nasty import duty situation (am convinced I’ve been overcharged). So it seems that I have a Henry. A composite Henry, to be sure, and possibly not one I can trust to have a handle on my entire life situation (yet), but I’m on my way.

I feel terribly grown-up.

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* Don’t worry, everybody’s fine.
** She’s also fine.
*** Not his actual name.