Grumpy Oldie Man
Want to go mad? Ring a call centre about a car-insurance blunder
Asked whom he would pick if he could become anyone else on earth, someone clever – probably Woody Allen – said, ‘Anyone else on earth.’
I strongly endorse the sentiment, though with a caveat. The solitary someone else (apart from serial killers, and Lord Sugar) I would not choose to be is anyone in a call centre who has to deal with me.
To James of Direct Line, and to his supervisor, Daniel, sincerest apologies for the cocktail of coiled rage and pure pomposity that made our recent dealings so deliciously intoxicating.
Neither of these fine chaps was directly responsible for my having driven without insurance for some days.
With hindsight, the error was entirely mine. What kind of chump is naïve enough to assume he’s insured from evidence as scant as a car-insurance certificate? Ignorance, as the late Lord Denning will confirm, is no defence in law.
The details of this fiasco being of zero imaginable interest, they are ideally suited to this space. So suffice it to know that Direct Line (a) elected unilaterally to cancel a new car policy and (b) failed to satisfy itself that I knew about this.
Before we go on, I should mention that, to folks who are naturally suspicious of modern communication methods, such as my parents, I cannot recommend Direct Line strongly enough.
By and large, for example, it eschews the use of email. Its commercial rivals email important information, such as policy documents and warnings of imminent cancellation. Yet despite the huge cost, and the Covid-heightened risk of letters arriving late or not at all, Direct Line cleaves courageously to the post.
It would be small surprise if it relies on carrier pigeons for the most crucial stuff, and none at all if its actuaries do their calculations using quills.
What was a surprise, when Direct
Line finally made a sortie into the present century, was an emailed survey asking why I had cancelled the brand-new policy.
The first of these having been ignored on the apparently compelling ground that I hadn’t, the second activated the siren.
After a typically refreshing half-hour on hold, James began by asking me to confirm my address, on the basis that a letter sent months ago had been returned.
He then explained that my policy has been cancelled owing to a minor scrape in March. The problem was that Direct Line still didn’t know the identity of the scraped vehicle’s owner.
‘But you settled the claim months ago,’ I spluttered. ‘I’m guessing you don’t generally settle claims without knowing who the claimant is.’
James agreed with that premise, confessed to bafflement and nipped off to talk to an underwriter.
The news on his return was disappointing. Since the cancellation letter had been sent, it wasn’t Direct Line’s fault. Therefore they were not obliged to reinstate the policy.
‘Hang on,’ I said, struggling to make the words audible over the sound of tooth enamel being ground, ‘you know the post is unreliable. It’s a few minutes since you told me a previous letter had been returned.’
Although once again bamboozled, James summoned the strength to calculate the price of another policy identical to the one for which I paid some £700 a few weeks ago. The new price was over £1,600.
It’s not just for whimsy that I keep a blood-pressure kit at hand for encounters of this type. Reassured that a blue-light ambulance ride wasn’t mandated, I asked James why, even if email is too precious to be squandered on anything less crucial than a survey, no one had rung about the cancellation.
It seems that Direct Line, much like Mr Hudson in Upstairs, Downstairs, is nervy about that new-fangled invention the telephone. That its logo is a jolly red phone struck me as too sledgehammerish an irony to be verbalised.
James’s patience and charm were then matched by those of his boss. Heroically triumphing over the corporate telephonophobia, possibly assisted by my reference to the press office after I revealed I was a journalist, Dan rang promptly and repeatedly.
The genesis of the cock-up lay in the Delhi office, he revealed, where the virus had caused a massive backlog. The policy would be reinstated at the original price. Furthermore, as requested, I would be compensated for the hours I’d spent resolving the issue. Would £40 be all right? Given the astonishing worthlessness of my time, I said, it was more than ample.
We parted on excellent terms, though not before Dan had been treated to a spectacularly tedious lecture about the potential for catastrophe. Suppose I had mown down a group of insurancecompany staff on a zebra crossing when unknowingly uninsured? I could have been bankrupted at best, and cordially invited to spend several years as Her Britannic Majesty’s house guest.
Apparently, in cases of the kind, where customers legitimately believe they are insured, the firm can issue an indemnity document to satisfy a court. That’s tremendously kind of it. But what the hell happens when it gets lost in the post?