I've come to the conclusion that Death and I have reached a sort of arrangement.

Not an official arrangement, you understand. Nothing written down. No contracts. No signatures.

More of a gentleman's agreement.

Death turns up every now and then, has a go, fails miserably, mutters something under his breath and leaves.

We've been doing this for years.

The first serious disagreement happened in Middlesbrough.

I was driving to work one morning during rush hour. Nothing unusual about that. Like millions of other motorists, I was simply trying to get from A to B without killing anyone or being killed myself.

Then my car bonnet decided it no longer wished to be part of the vehicle.

Without warning, it launched itself upwards.

There was an almighty bang.

The bonnet smashed into the windscreen.

The windscreen shattered.

And suddenly I couldn't see a thing.

Now, under normal circumstances, this would simply be a matter of putting the hazard lights on, slowing down and pulling over safely. Mildly inconvenient and not massively dangerous if you keep your cool, something I'm good at, I like to think.

Unfortunately, these were not normal circumstances.

I was travelling at around eighty miles per hour, crossing a bridge over a rather unfriendly ravine, while being overtaken by a forty-foot truck.

At this point Death probably rubbed his skeletal hands together and thought:

"Finally. This one should be easy."

I imagine he had already started filling out the paperwork.

Cause of death: Idiot in car.

Location: Bridge.

Witnesses: Several thousand commuters.

Probability of survival: Essentially none.

Unfortunately for Death, I had other plans.

Or perhaps no plans at all. It happened so quickly that instinct took over. I somehow managed to keep the car pointing roughly in the correct direction, avoided becoming part of the Armco barrier to my left and, avoided driving under the truck on my right. Fortunately the bridge ended and a nice grass verge appeared on my left. Eventually I rolled to a stop.

I sat there for several minutes wondering why I was alive.

Death, meanwhile, was probably standing on the bridge looking disappointed.

I imagine he kicked a tyre or two and went home.

For a few years afterwards he left me alone.

Then, a four years ago, he returned.

This time he arrived carrying cancer.

Not just any cancer, Lymphoma. The doctors informed me that around eighty percent of my bone marrow had been invaded.

Eighty percent. That's not a minor administrative error. That's the medical equivalent of discovering termites have eaten most of your house and are discussing dessert.

Death must have been feeling quite confident. He'd had decades to prepare. He'd upgraded his equipment. He'd studied the manuals. He'd probably attended a conference.

"Right," he thought. "No exploding bonnets this time. No lucky escapes. This one is mine."

Then doctors, nurses, chemotherapy, immunotherapy and modern medicine arrived and spoiled everything.

Again.

Four years later I am still here.

Death, meanwhile, was standing outside the hospital holding a clipboard. "Are you kidding me?" he muttered.

Apparently so.

The strange thing is that these experiences didn't make me fear death more. They made me appreciate life more.

You discover that most of the things you worry about aren't worth worrying about.

The grass can wait another day. The dishes will still be there tomorrow. That person on social media arguing about politics isn't going to change their mind.

Life turns out to be far too short to spend it being permanently annoyed.

These days I suspect Death and I are both older and wiser.

He still drops by occasionally.

A funny blood test.

A strange ache.

A medical appointment.

Just enough to remind me he's still out there.

I usually wave.

He waves back.

Then we both carry on with our day.

One day he'll get lucky.

I accept that.

But judging by our current scorecard, he may have to work a bit harder than he expected.

And if he does eventually arrive, I hope he'll at least have the decency to admit that I've made him earn it.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026

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