Insurance stresses me out. There is something about the whole idea that makes me think I am invincible. When it comes to personal safety, health, transport and anything else remotely sensible, I automatically decide that I am exempt.
Unfortunately, this belief is completely unfounded. I am uncommonly clumsy and have the luck of a blind black cat searching for the exit in a hall of mirrors with a machete. I reckon it’s probably just a combination of idiocy, laziness and an over-zealous God complex. Take my current situation for example; it’s been almost eight months that I have lived in France and I am still to sort out my social security. This means that if I have an accident or fall sick, financially I’m screwed. The French, unlike the good old state system of the UK, have no saving network for fools like me. A 10 minute GP consultation, even if it consists of ‘You’re fine, go away’, costs €23. If you have your social security card, you’re reimbursed. If not, you’re an idiot.
This is precisely the reason why I am grateful that my father has at least a few more brain cells than one quarter of his progeny. Take one foolish child, a foreign country, and a car and what do you get – all risks insurance. This was definitely money well spent. Case in point: last Tuesday, upon leaving the house to teach one of my private pupils, I had a rather unhappy encounter with another driver and am now intimately familiar with the small-print of the insurance contract. I am pleased to say that the accident was through no fault of my own – I was waiting to turn left at a junction about 150m from my house, when a slightly over-excited 18-year old came zooming round a bend and crashed into my side. Unfortunately, being in a Toyata Rav 4, his ride fared a little better than my little yoghurt pot, which now has un-closable doors. Yet then again, Chevy-the-Chevrolet (for it is he) held out pretty well and thankfully neither I nor the other driver were hurt.
I won’t go into details about the extent of the damage, nor the lengthy and rather painful bureaucratic process that has followed, but it is safe to say that this has been an experience that I am unlikely to forget. I am eternally grateful to Nadine and the Perusins (my surrogate family) who have seen a lot of tears, dealt with a lot of impatient insurance personnel, and have generally been great support. In all honesty, without them, I would undoubtedly still be at the site of the accident babbling in garbled French and squinting blankly at the ‘Constat d’Accident’ forms.
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The driver side - the door handle has been taken clean off. |
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| Rav 4 brake marks on the road |
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| Relatively little damage for my compadre - although he can no longer open the driver door. |
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| Pretty undrivable, unless you enjoy a lot of fresh air... |
What happens now? I am without a car and have been for the last 2 weeks. The ‘experts’ are coming to the house on the 6th June (apparently they’re ‘really busy’...) and will take wee Chevy away for some TLC and (fingers crossed) lend me another car in the meantime. For now, I’m relying on the kindness of others, the patience of Nadine, and an old broken bike to get around. Although definitely not perfect, it’s pretty funny...
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