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Roger Rabbits with |
“Good morning, you’re talking with Noah. How’s your day?”
How’s my day? HOW’S MY DAY?
The fact that I am talking to a claims officer at an insurance company this minute might suggest to you what sort of day I am having. Sorry to disappoint but I am not ringing because you are on my list of auto-dial faves. My list of two.
This all happened the day after I was hoist by own petard – blown up by my own bomb. If hubris is, in part, dangerous overconfidence and complacency, then I had it. And it undid me. With a crunch.
Last week I’d been banging on about my driving ability, or lack thereof, in The Weekend Sun page 2 column titled: “Confessions of a crap driver”. I did the NZ Transport Agency Waka Kotahi online 15-point self-rating assessment quiz for drivers.
Red lights started flashing, up went the alarm bells. “STOP,” the agency said. “You are engaging in unsafe driving practices and might pose a hazard to yourself and others.”
The crunch
Suddenly a bit of fun demanded crisis management. And an insurance claim. I was all a bit smug because a lovely couple I know remarked on the yarn, said it was raised over dinner with other friends; and they’d all had a chuckle about it. Clever old me.
But literally minutes later I was backing my car out of the garage into a shared driveway, a manoeuvre I’d done safely a thousand times. But this time, I inadvertently swept a bit wider. And CRUNCH! That horrible, expensive, graunching sound of car body parts shredding. I’d backed straight into a sturdy garden fencepost set in concrete. Not so clever.
“STOP! You are engaging in unsafe driving practices.” Ain’t that the truth – I just didn’t look. What started out as a bit of whimsy on page 2 became real-world in my driveway. Someone was teaching me for being a smart aleck.
The air was blue with profanities I didn’t know I had in my vocabulary.
It reminded me of a delightful Christian I knew who’d deal with the worst life could throw at him by using “blinkin’ heck!”. That wouldn’t cut it for me. You’ve got a terminal disease. “Blinkin’ heck!” Your wife’s run off with the milkman. “Blinkin’ heck!”
Bitter and out of pocket
Anyhow, last week’s page 2 column had backfired on me. And backfiring comes at a cost – like a $400 insurance excess, and a reassessment of my annual premium. They’ll claw it back somehow. The lease on Auckland CBD office space with Waitematā sea views doesn’t come cheap. Grumpy, crap, septuagenarian Tauranga drivers who ding their cars can pay for it. Now I am getting bitter.
But I feel for insurance claims officers – ICOs. All day, every day is a litany of lives disintegrating, like the panels of the cars we drive badly, and want compensated for. All day, every day is someone else’s personal crisis.
It would take someone special to have ears for all that.
I finally get through to my new best friend, ICO Noah – but not before three different calls totalling 25 minutes and an irritating voice advising me: “All our claim officers are beezy right now, we’ll be weeth you soon”.
Beezy listening to other people’s miseries.
Being interrogated
When I get through to Noah, he plays me a recording – not Winehouse or Shapplin or BB King, none of my favourites – but an ominous voice warning that my information, my truths, half-truths and outright lies relating to my driveway mishap will be shared with the world, with every other insurance company in Wellington. They’re on to me.
Then Noah asks me some very interesting questions – has anyone approved to drive your car been in prison recently? Or fired an intercontinental ballistic missile at anyone with intent? Or maliciously spread bubonic plague? I concocted the last two. But I was comfortable answering with an emphatic “No”.
Drastically modified
Then he asked if my car had been modified in any way. Why would a 70-plus year-old add fat feet, spoilers, side skirts, cold air intakes and a performance exhaust system to a Honda CRV? It’s like the driver – tragically ordinary and old. Besides, I can’t drive it safely as it is.
But I was able to answer: “Yes, it was drastically modified yesterday when I backed into a solid fencepost set in concrete, tearing off my rear bumper and splintering other bits and pieces. Which was the reason I was calling in the first place.”
And I hadn’t even got to the end of the driveway.
Noah had a sense of humour. He laughed … at my misfortune. Then approved my claim. Bless him.
But I’ve learned another lesson. Don’t tempt fate, and when NZ Transport Agency Waka Kotahi advised that I should read their suggestions for improving my driving, I should have listened.
Noah thanked me for my call and offered me the stock: “Call back if there is anything further I can help you with.” To tell the truth Noah, I hope like hell I never have to engage with you again. But with the state of my driving …
