There are unspoken rules between men and their cars. So when I looked outside after hearing a sound that bore resemblance to a wooden gate being slammed shut, only to find a middle-aged ‘gentleman’ inspecting the damage he had just inflicted on my car, then to swiftly get back into his car and drive away, I felt completely and utterly betrayed. Thankfully upon hearing and seeing this suspicious behaviour, I promptly took out my phone and snapped a shot of his plates before he managed to escape, at this point still believing that I was being overly paranoid and that it actually was just a gate shutting. Then my doorbell rang. It was at this point I looked up from the work I was doing, and the fact that there is no wooden gate in the middle of the road outside my house sunk in. To my disappointment it wasn’t the perpetrator in question at my door feeling guilty about fleeing, but a lady from a few doors down. She was here to tell me that she also managed to jot down some information about the offending car and that she and her husband would happily be witnesses to, what is now to be considered, a crime.
I like to pride myself as someone who makes few mistakes when driving, and never having had any sort of accident before, I had no idea what to do next. The thought of my baby being damaged by some selfish sod in a diesel who doesn’t understand the concept of looking behind him when reversing, annoyed me tremendously, and the only reaction I could muster was roaring profanities at the kitchen table until a quick Google revealed the answer. “Go to your local police station to let them know, then ring your insurer,” Google told me. So I did just that, and after some toing and froing, managed to convince my insurance company it wasn’t me (honest!), and the local police department to open a new case. This was all well and good, but my car is now, once again, out of action.
A week later and the repairs were booked in, as was the courtesy car. At this point I was yet to find out what car I would receive however, but my insurance had assured me it would be a car of a similar standard and type. I was hoping a Boxter, or maybe even a C-class Cabriolet. I’d be ok with that, and would be laughing all the way to the local track in it, but I severely doubted a hit and run could turn out that positively. The next lot of news from my insurer was that it could be something a bit more mainstream, with a bit less horsepower, a bit more seating, and a bit less fun. This made me a bit less happy.
I expressed my disappointment to the bloke on the phone at the local hire car agency at the idea of an automatic Ford Focus, and he told me he would see what’s available. I was hoping that, unlike the inept dimwit that reversed into my car, this man would act selflessly, adhere to these aforementioned unspoken rules, and help a fellow car lover out. He didn’t. I ended up with the Ford Focus. But you know what? At least he was good enough to let me know.