choking on civic responsibility

It's that time of year again. You know what I'm talking about. The days are dark. The tax man wants his money (in two countries in my case). How better to cheer yourself up than to ring around for a better deal on your car insurance? Joy!

So, of course, with no better way to spend my time I sat down and called every major insurance company for a quote. I like to be honest, you see, and make sure that what I do is all above board even when it comes to buying into the scam we call "car insurance". So I'd ring up and the conversation would go something like this:

"I'd like a car insurance quote please."
"Ok, we'll just need to get some personal details from you."
"Alright," I'd say, taking a swig of coffee and settling into my easy chair.

"Now, name and date of birth."
And I'd tell them.

"Have you a full Irish license and for how long?"
The answer to this is yes, and for almost 3 years. But that's only in Ireland. I've been a fully qualified and licensed driver for 18 years in the US, but that doesn't count here.

"What sort of car?"
And I'd tell them that. And for the record, it's a 1.9 diesel, which I bought in an effort to save on fuel and emissions.

END OF CONVERSATION - TYPE A
"I'm sorry but we cannot insure drivers with less than three years experience on anything over a 1.4 engine."
"Yes, but they don't make my car with a diesel engine smaller than a 1.9. It's not my fault," I protest, "I was trying to do the world a favour!"
Short of informing me that all newly licensed drivers (or otherwise restricted) in Ireland must spend three years of their life behind the wheel of a Micra or at least putting stabilisers on the car I already own, the faceless man on the other end of the phone offers no sympathy and I thank him for his time. (I leave the cursing for later, in private)

IF THE CONVERSATION HASN'T ENDED, CONTINUE WITH THE FOLLOWING SCRIPT:
"Have you any claims outstanding?"
The answer to this is no, and I have two years no claims accrued so far as a primary insurance holder.

END OF CONVERSATION - TYPE B
"I'm sorry, but we don't insure drivers with anything less than three years no claims."
"But I've been driving since I was 15, and licensed since I was 16," I protest, "I'm really a very good driver."
But she can't hear that because she's clearly reached the end of this script and is hanging up now. I make more coffee and trawl the phonebook.

IF THE CONVERSATION HASN'T ENDED, PROCEED WITH THE FOLLOWING SCRIPT:
"Two years no claims... that's fine. Is the car kept primarily at your home address for four nights a week or more?"
"Yes, of course, where else do I sleep?"
Honestly.

"What is your occupation?"
Mm... answering this question always makes me blush because it sounds much sexier than it actually is. Sure, I own a production company. Sure, it's considered to be in the "Entertainment" industry. But believe you me, it's really not all that. But I say it, because I'm honest, and I didn't seek a visa as a filmmaker just to lie about it.
"I'm a filmmaker."
I catch a whiff of excitement from the lady on the other end of the phone.
"Oh, how exciting," she says.
"Well... not really," I reply.
There's a pause on the other end of the line. Only a momentary hesitation, but a hesitation none the less.
"Would you mind holding for a moment, I need to clear this with my supervisor?"
"Ok," I say. She's nice enough, of course she'll continue to be nice.

I want to interject here a moment and explain that the next thing you might be asked if you were looking for insurance in the US is "How far do you commute to work each day?" or "What colour is the car and are there any modifications?" (I don't know for certain, but I've heard red cars cost more on your premium), "Have you any previous convictions?" or even "Do you suffer epilepsy?", and all of these things would tell the insurer a little about your driving habits or about the kind of driver you might be. That would be the next thing they ask you. In America.

END OF CONVERSATION - TYPE C
"I'm sorry, but we won't be able to offer you an insurance policy with our company."
"Why not?" I ask.
"We wouldn't be able to meet the needs of people like you."
"What kind of people am I?" I ask.
"Well, camera men, fillum people," (she was from the North). "Maybe if you ring a broker they'll be able to help find a company that will insure you."
"But I don't understand..."
"I'm sorry abite that nahr." (Remember, she's from the North)
"Oh, ok... thanks for your..." Dead air on the other end.

I'm crestfallen. Totally gobsmacked and smacked down. I don't know who else to call. I've exhausted my options. I've been through these bloody Golden Pages and there's no more that I can see. How come no one will insure me other than the crooks who want to charge me a small fortune because I'm supposedly "high risk"? If they knew the truth, they'd know I'm about as high risk as a housewife.

I wanted to call her back and talk about this some more. I sat and drank my third cup of coffee and imagined how this conversation might sound.

"Hello?"
"Um, yes, hello. I'm the lady you just cast aside a moment ago."
"Oh yes, the fillum director! How are you?"
"Hi, yes, me... er, I'm fine but I just wanted to talk to you about this some more. Maybe we can work this out, you know, like come to some kind of understanding?"
"Well, it's against comany policy to insure people like you," she would explain.
"Well, you see, that's what I don't understand, that phrase "people like you". I don't think you know what kind of people I truly am, or you'd be paying to insure me, really I think you would be."
"Oh really? Why, because you're famous?" she would ask giddily.
"No! God no! Because I'm a good driver."
"But you're a filmmaker, aren't you?" she would ask.
"Yes, I am. But I don't think you know how insular and boring that is much of the time!"
"I would have thought that being a filmmaker is terribly exciting!"
"No! It's isn't!" I would exclaim in desperation, pleading for her to hear me out. How can I possibly convey to her that it's an agonising, sometimes mind-numbingly lonely lifestyle, as much as a career. I began my soliloquy.

"My life is quiet, soooo quiet. I don't do much of anything at all, most of the time, but write stuff and look at my dog. At home. In my office, at home. Where I don't have to drive. I can crawl to my office if I so desired. I work in my PJ's if I'm not expecting anyone, and I rarely expect anyone.

"I don't party. I go to Tesco. I take the dog to the woods. I sit on my arse and dream for a living. I have no children, so there's no danger of me watching the road with one eye and the child with another. I don't commute! I don't work a 9 to 5 in an office and because of that I don't feel compelled to go out at weekends on the lash and drive to work on Monday morning still drunk. I don't do that! And since I'm self employed and work at home there are no office parties, not even at Christmas.

"There's a pub around the corner, two in fact, and I don't go to either of them! I rent my DVDs in the post! Whatever I do out I do with a conscience and with preparation because if I don't plan everything and remain in full control of my faculties I'd be a terrible at my job. Directors are neurotic people, we really are. We're not the ones out getting papped at the clubs and dying of overdoses, really we're not. You've got me all wrong! I'm the one who has to write the story, make the decisions, and then go about employing the people to help me get the thing done. I'm responsible!

"So, you see, I if you just give me a chance I will prove to you that I'm an excellent, very well trained driver. We can negotiate a probationary period, after which you can lower my premium as long as I continue to perform well. And perform I shall! Perform I will! I will make you proud to be my insurer! You will be the star of your company for having put me in the system! Your bosses will praise you! Your comtemporaries will envy you! You'll be lauded for your vision, your charisma, and your bravery! Think of it! Can you see it? Can you feel it?... Can you?.... um, hello?"