Day 350: I Receive Some Excellent Customer Service

As I have not lived in London since January, and as I intend to move from Amsterdam to Canada in October, I have not and will not have much use for my car.

Indeed, it has lain fallow in my street in London's fashionable Brixton for some months - or at least it did until the road tax disc (in an astonishing and magical move) slipped down and over the residents' parking permit, directly leading to clamping, towing, and a short spell in detention in an industrial estate in Peckham.

But now, £600 and some months later, my car is now in the possession of my mother, MonkeyMother. Virtually destitute, my parents can only afford to maintain the Bentley in London; the other car and the Renault 4 van are in France, in a shed, and cannot be moved. As a result, and after some weeks of tearful telephone calls, I have finally capitulated and will be allowing my mother to drive my car on the strict condition that she stops it with the absinthe.

And so I have had to insure her. Driving backwards into a stream aside, she is a safe driver and can be trusted. Direct Line were happy to insure her, but had to make some checks before sending out the certificate.

"I've got to pop you on hold now", said Mark at Direct Line. "What would you prefer while you're waiting? Frank Sinatra or silence?"