I was parking the car at Sainsbury’s, leaving my wife to do the shopping, about to go off for my swim and snack. It was very busy for a Monday, but then shopping is the national pastime.
I saw a gap at last and a bloke standing beside it. I asked if he was keeping it. He said no, so I slowly drove in, making sure I didn’t run over his toe. I felt the vaguest movement as my bumper slid along the side of the car to my left, but I just smiled, idiotically. Bad parker, eh? The bloke then went potty. I thought for a moment I had hit his toe. It turned out the car I had ever so slightly grazed was his. I got out and could hardly see the scratch, but I mumbled an apology: “Modern life, just look at my car, the scratches people have given me.” My car is so perforated and pitted it looks like a close-up of the moon.
“It’s just a little scratch,” I said. “It’ll rub out with a damp rag.”
He told me I had dented the door and the wing. “It’s going to cost you. What’s your name, address and insurance company?” I’m quite good on my name and address, taking it slowly, but my insurance company, God knows.
I had my swim, and my snack, and had almost forgotten the little incident, thinking he would calm down. Surely nobody can get fussed over a small scratch on an old Golf? Later that day he rang to say he had been given an estimate of £329.
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“Bloody hell,” I said, “for that old car?” “Do you mind?” he said. “It’s an Alfa Romeo, just two years old, and immaculate.” Shows how observant I am — almost as sharp as my parking.
I dug out my insurance policy, with Norwich Union, to find out my position.
It took hours, perhaps days, going through automated helplines, whose main purpose seemed to be to help themselves — telling me my call would be monitored for training purposes, help improve their services, blah blah, and my details might be passed on to associated companies to help them, blah blah. I was screaming by the end. I’ve got too much work to do to waste time listening to stupid recorded voices.
I eventually got through to a human who was very helpful. The company would take over the paperwork and if I didn’t do it again in the next year, I wouldn’t actually have to pay anything.
As for the £329, that was nothing for a scratch in a car park. The average is nearer £500. But what about the damage to my car? My car? I had in fact not even looked. No point, really. How could I recognise a new bump from an old one? Then the other bloke’s insurance company, Churchill, started sending me letters, which was annoying. I think that’s the worst aspect of these minor incidents: the time and paperwork it takes.
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But some good, perhaps even some money, may come out of all this. I listened to so many stupid helplines all week that I decided to work on my own specially taped message. I tried it out first on Norwich Union.
“My name is Jo,” said a nice voice from the Newcastle call centre. “How can I help you?” “Before we continue, Jo,” I said, “I have to tell you that I am monitoring this call. Any information you give me that proves unhelpful, not to say wrong and expensive, might be used as evidence in any forthcoming claims for damages or any legal action I may take.
“I might also pass on your name and number to thousands of time wasters who may approach you about double-glazing or Viagra. Oh, and I forgot to ask your mother’s maiden name, date of birth, password, favourite football team . . .
There was a long pause, then she started laughing. “I’m not bothered. I know that all the information I’ll give you is correct,” she said.
Hmm, so I haven’t got the wording quite right yet, but I’m sure there’s a market for customised tape messages. Then I might make some money out of my lunch break.