Of insurance claims, naughty boys and death machines

My insomniac brain has been mulling over various stresses in my life, and one that comes to mind is the saga of the insurance claim for an accident I had at a work meeting in June, where I opened the taxi door & scratched the side of a passing car. Long story short: Taxi driver claimed the cab was insured for all damage: lies, and probably an illegal Indian driver, who did not return the calls of the damaged car's owner. The car owner - nice lady - eventually claimed on her policy, but asked me to pay the $600 excess. I did so, and started a tedious process at work to recover the money from QUT's travel insurer. Then I got an unpleasant call the day before departure to Europe from a debt collector who told me I owed them some amount around $3000 - asked me lots of questions, but wouldn't answer mine. So I evaded she said I'd get details in a letter. Now the insurance company has given the car owner the excess back, and they've given it back to me. So I was lying sleepless mulling over when that will arrive, what beaurocro-nightmare will result when I try and get the money back from QUT's travel insurer - who has been wholly uncommunicative about the original $600. Blah Blah, Money, Paperwork, etc.

But during this process of thought I recalled that my maternal grandfather, Ernie, a gentleman, Christian (in the best possible way), and photographer, lawn bowler, bird-watcher, nature lover, farmer, caravaner, and caravan salesman was also described to me as a child as working as an expiditer. Which I only later came to understand as a chaser-upper of debts. I can only imagine that I would not have felt so harrassed had Ernie been the one to call me about the insurance claim.

So what of naughty boys and death machines you ask? Well, Ernie (I should say "grandpa", because that is how I really knew him), was also a pilot during the second world war. Hence the death machines. I think that he actually spent most of his time flying Tigermoths with trainee pilots who then went on to be given spitfires to strafe Rommel's troops in North Africa. I'll have to ask my mum sometime for details, as it hasn't really been a topic of conversation in the family for decades - not for any good reason - just hasn't come up. But I'm imagining young Ernie flying a spitfire, with it's viscious teeth painted on the front, being sent to kill other young men marching through the north African desert. It does not really reconcile with my image of my gentle grandpa, who was so nice to my boyfriend when we went to South Africa on holiday in 1999, with his elephant-watching tips.

Now back to insomnia, in a 1980s hotel/apartment building in Karlsruhe, which was no doubt built on the site of a bombed out building, destroyed during the war - perhaps by the only other person who I know was a pilot for the Allies - my grade 9 English teacher, Mr Miles. He seemed kind of damaged by the experience of raining bombs down over Germany on civilian targets, and perhaps as a result (or perhaps not) was incapable of maintaining discipline over a class of 30 naughty boys. We were very cruel to him, calling him Toad, and playing all kinds of willfully cruel games on him because we knew he was weak, and old and, damaged.

So I lie here sobbing big salty tears for the dead on the spot where I now reside for the night, and for the living who were forced to kill them, and managed to go on with their lives, with varying degrees of grace and dignity, and for myself, the thoughtless naughty boy.

How trivial the scratch on the car door, and the complex machinations to reclaim the price of paint job.