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| Oh, the humanity |
Home from work and straight to bed, for those 5.15am starts
are a killer. Blocking out the sound of the school disco going on next door with
a pile of soft furnishings on top of my head, I drift into unconsciousness.
Of COURSE, the phone is going to ring the second you're finally
asleep.
"Hello, this is Ricardo from the insurance legal
department, I'm ringing about a car crash."
I am awake, my panic button well and truly pressed, for I
have not been in a car crash for years, nor have I knowingly been the witness
to one. Had a few near misses, mind you. What's the insurance legal department
got on me?
"Which car crash is this?" I ask.
"We need to take a few personal details," says
Ricardo, clearly reading from a script and he's having problems with the words
longer than a single syllable.
"Which car crash is this?" I ask again, safe now
in the knowledge that he doesn't even know my name, the only thing he has in
front of him is a list of phone numbers of potential marks.
It's a mystery: I haven't even done
anything to get me on the con merchants' list, unless you count that time I
helped that Nigerian prince move £8m out of the country, but that was purely
legit.
But Ricardo presses on, probably fully aware of what's to
come.
"It was an accident you had in England and Wales
between now and 2012," he reads, thinking this is adequate explanation. It
is not. I am tired. This prick has woken me up from a dream about sexy ghosts.
"Oh, piss off Ricardo."
He does not call back.
3 comments:
Lt. Col. Larrington (retd.) strung one of these idiots along for about ten minutes before revealing that he hasn't had a licence since 2002.
Keep them baited for a few minutes and then ask whether they are happy being part of a conspiracy to commit a fraudulent act or something else sufficiently legal sounding. You can almost hear them soil themselves.
Mate of mine enjoys stringing the PPI guys along, and some are so thick that when says his loan was from the "bank of Nigeria" they don't twig!
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