Thursday, April 25, 2013

Not in the good books

Yesterday I managed to persuade the husband to collect our daughter from one of her many parties on his way home from work.  It was at an awkward time and in an even more awkward location but he agreed. Even though it meant missing out on his cricket practice.

Big gold star for him.

Then I mentioned that whilst he was doing it he might as well do the pick up for one of her friends too, seeing as he was there and all...

Oh, and maybe one more.

He sent me a text at 6.30 saying he was stuck in traffic with three squealing eight year old girls in the back of the car.

I tried hard not to display my glee.

An hour later, after a missed call or two (whoops), he rang to say he had broken down. One girl had been deposited home already and one brother in law was on his way to rescue the remaining strandees.

Could I just look up the insurance paperwork so he could call them for a recovery vehicle to be sent?

No problemo!

Later that evening as I put the kids to bed I could hear a long phone argument ensuing between my mildly pissed off husband and the mildly bored out of his brain insurance agent I had put him on to.

Forty minutes later, after forcing the agent who insisted we didn't have a policy with them to back down and arrange a roadside recovery, he put the phone down.

I heard a shuffle of paperwork and then a loud sigh.

Then he came to find me. 'The good news? Someone will be out in the next half hour. The bad news? I've just found our actual insurance policy and it's with a different fucking company!'


No gold star for me then.

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