“Funny picture," remarked a puzzled voice behind me,  as I rummaged in my box room. I turned quickly to see my small son frowning disapprovingly at a picture composed of black scrawls and a red blob. Gently I took it from him -- my A.C.I.I. diploma. What memories it brought back! A few years ago my proudest possession, and now, here it was relegated to the lumber-room. I sat back on my heels thoughtfully.

Was it worthwhile? I asked myself. Those years of work in insurance offices, these nights of study? That nerve-straining ordeal when I sat for this same diploma, one woman among three hundred men, bracing my courage by the consciousness of new clothes and a perfect wave? Or had it all been a sheer waste as in the first glory of married life, it had seemed, when, with one contemptuous gesture, I cast the trophy aside? 

Suddenly seeing it in perspective for the first time, I realised how worthwhile it had been. For the sake of the Provincial women who hope to marry and so find it hard to give their whole hearts to insurance, I pass on a little of my hard-won wisdom.

Work on Life insurance is so bound up with tragedy and catastrophe that I very early realised that the future does not take care of itself. It was impossible to forget the letters I had read from women left widowed with no provision but the slenderest of life insurances; Impossible not to realise the unhappiness caused by the neglect of so simple a thing as a will. Later experience of fire and accident insurance but strengthened my conviction that the wise man or woman prepares for contingencies. With this preparation for marriage I was not afraid when the time came to discuss with my husband the best way to make life safe for me and the babies. We made certain that our wills were in order, that each knew the whereabouts of each other's papers, that our house was properly covered, and that provision was being made for the future education of our little sons. Tragedy may come, but, as far as it is humanly possible, we are prepared. 

The next big lesson I learnt in spite of myself. Nothing in life has inspired me with greater dislike than the dictaphone -- that soulless ear waiting for the receipt of one’s remarks. How bald they sounded as one declaimed then aloud, till one faltered and stammered at the inadequacy of one's style? But hate it as I would, I grudgingly conceded its usefulness, and, from constant association with it, with the typewriter, and with the adding machine, I came to take machinery for granted. 

When, therefore, I changed my associateship for one of another kind, I was horrified at the unnecessary drudgery of housework. Must one do this by hand? I kept asking, as I toiled with dustpan and brush, with soap and scrubbing brush. I snatched a visit to the Ideal Home Exhibition, I seriously explored Trade Shows and soon found that the machinery was there, easily available and not prohibitive; the main stumbling block was the average housewife herself, who had no use for "new Fangled ideas." It was not long before a vacuum cleaner and a washing machine figured in my household equipment, and, always with the object of reducing  unnecessary labour, I saw that my taps were of stainless metal, my tables topped with porcelain, If man will not drudge in his office, why should woman in her kitchen? The insurance trained woman, of all women, should be alive to the newest ideas. 

But all this might be true of any insurance clerk who had not troubled to qualify further, What of the diploma itself? How has that helped me?  I smile as I realise in what stead the ability to satisfy examiners has stood me. Daily I am assailed by questions covering the whole range of earth and heaven. "Mummy, why? Mummy, what? Mummy, how?" My questioners are sternest critics than any examiners.  The answer "I don't know" brings only the stern order: "But I don't want you not to know.” 

When I sat down to my examination, I know that facts and only facts were of any use~ no imagination could conceal ‘an error of wording in the waiver clause, no skilful padding make up for vagueness about bills of lading. In a hard school I learnt to curb my too-fertile imagination, to write facts only, and to write them clearly and simply. And for that I have cause to be thankful, Only the women of our generation, brought up on half-answers and mock-modest evasions can understand the passion of the infant mind for truth. I try to give it, for very humbly I realise that greater things than a diploma are at stake. 

So I look back over my "twelve years hard", laughing a little that I should have called hard a job with fixed hours and no night duty, thankful for what I gained, and not least for the facility with the pen gained in duels with worthy antagonists in branch offices, which is proving such a pleasant hobby for my house-tied evenings. A voice breaks into my thoughts

"Mummy hang the funny picture.” 

“Good idea, son,” I reply, and hand in hand, we go in search of hammer and nails that the diploma may once more hang in a place of honour. It was worth it, all of it but -- would I go back? Not on your life!