Hurricanes and greased seals!

Now look... you know I'm a reasonable sort of man. Very reasonable. Almost too... Anyway, my patience was pushed to the limit over the past week - a week which saw a large part of the front of my house head southwards. I wouldn't normally bore you with my personal woes, but this is a tale with a moral - a story which may serve to help others.

It was the evening of the hurricane sweeping southern England (yes, another one). London was on amber weather alert, the wind was blowing hard and the rain was falling... horizontally. Not pleasant at all. I myself was tucked up inside watching Midsomer Murders and supping a Doombar. It was a picture of warm, cosy, domestic bliss. Then... as the third body dropped on the telly, so did the front of my house with an almighty wet thump, rather like the sound of someone hurling a heavy, greased seal against my front window. It smacked against my double-glazing on the way down to flattening my red hot pokers, you see. I jumped, spilt my Doombar and said a few choice words. I then went out to survey the damage. It was not a pleasant sight. Rendering (that's the technical word) was pretty much everywhere and a large blank patch stared at me like an open, howling mouth. OK... not that bad. It was then that I noticed my front door swinging shut. Panic. I was standing in my front garden in my t-shirt and slippers in a sub-zero hurricane... crucially without my front door key. I dived towards the door like an overpaid Saracens rugby winger going for the corner. And made it... just.

Next day, I surveyed the carnage. Not nice at all. So, I rang the house insurance people (Direct Line) and told them of my misfortune in the amber-coloured hurricane, the previous night. This is how the conversation went:

"... the wind and rain must have caught it at a bad angle and ripped it down," says I, getting the ball rolling.

"So, are you saying it wasn't wear-and-tear?"

"Sorry? Do 65 mile-an-hour winds count as wear-and-tear, nowadays?"

"If it's wear-and-tear, you're not covered. The wind is not important."

"But a hurricane tore it down. Last night. Like a wet seal..." "So, you are alleging that it was not wear-and-tear?"

"Alleging?"

This went on for a few minutes, after which I was steered to an online claims form which had as its first question..... yes, you've guessed it.

Three days later (I was suitably impressed by this) an insurance 'investigator' turned up at my house to do a 'drive-by'. Yes - that really is the technical term. But he stopped. And got out. And looked up at my house. And laughed. Yes, laughed. I saw this from my lounge. Perhaps this is what postmodern drive-bys are like in today's world I thought, rather unkindly. I went out and was immediately shushed. He put his ear to an undamaged part of my house and began tapping with a pen. The conversation then went like this:

"Hello. Would you like a cup of..." says I, being nice.

"That's hollow."

"What?'

"The rendering is hollow. It was bound to come down."

"But it didn't. Until a 65mph wind came along, that is."

"That's wear-and-tear."

"What?"

"My role is to see if the proximate cause is storm or wear-and-tear."

"Prox..."

He then began some serious tapping, like a doctor with a bronchial patient. I sighed and went back inside. The man then disappeared after spending at least 10 minutes as if prospecting for gold in my walls.

The next day I was telephoned by the man. The house had failed the test. The hurricane had failed. The rain had failed. I had failed. It was normal wear-and-tear in a 65mph wind with lots of proximates protecting Direct Line's money. I made a cup of coffee and thought about the madness of the world.

Forget all the stuff above and just imagine how much it cost to send an investigator around to assess the claim. Then consider that my wonderful Russian friend arrived a week later and carried out all the necessary repairs for just £300.

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Now... here's the interesting bit... my insurance 'waver' is £200, so I was only actually claiming for £100! Just do the maths and then go for a beer. It would have cost Direct Line much less to grant the claim and move on, than send a man out to pee me off, lose my future custom and then pay him much more than a hundred quid for the visit and subsequent report, I imagine. Madness and a total waste of time, energy and money. Mind you... I blame Brexit...

Sigh...