health insurance | the.wanderlings

This is going to be deadly dull. If you are already tired then this is likely to send you to zed land where you will dream that you are continually falling but never landing. But I’m determined to put this to ink.

it’s good to be back in Brissol, home of street art

Insurances are a faff. We all hear horror stories of people getting into accidents, or property being flooded and, on enquiry, there’s either no insurance or poor insurance. C and I have always gone out of our way to be uber-insured. C has a thing about risk of this kind and, although I have always groaned when the bill needs to be paid, we have had some tricky accidents especially abroad and our insurances have always made a potentially difficult and expensive situation stress and cost free. One exception to this has been health insurance which we have paid through the nose for year after year and, with a hefty excess, used so irregularly I would have been better diverting the cash to employ my own GP, which on the premiums I could have afforded. In light of having to cut cloth for Stage 3 I have to say I have cancelled it. The NHS will do (C is a huge advocate of the NHS).

Full-timing presents a couple of insurance dilemmas. We need Doris insured. And we need our health insured when we’re travelling abroad. Yesterday I dealt with the latter.

The overwhelming advice from fellow full-timers is to forget it and use the European health card (EH111, now called something different) which allows for reciprocal health care free of charge for all Europeans. We have always had these and they are v good and essential travel companions. However we have also been charged for ambulance rides, medicines and there are stories in some countries of heavier longer-term charges. Of course as a full-timer we don’t necessarily need repatriation (we’re not rushing back to work) and with our own home and our own wheels we could convalesce and repatriate in Doris. But we really wouldn’t want to be faced with a huge hospital bill nor end up bedded down in the corridor of a Greek hospital (another story). So, as we can’t do this forever, paying a premium seems like a sensible option.

This is when it all got a bit complicated. C and I both have minor permanent health conditions. Nothing life-threatening, but they have to be declared. So that I don’t have to grit my teeth and press the keys really hard I’ll cut to the chase (although I must mention one phone conversation I have with an Indian subcontinent chap who took five attempts to type in my email address – neither of us could understand each other): the bill looked like coming to somewhere between six to nine hundred pounds for the nine months. Most of the insurers don’t insure over-45s for long term trips, and nearly all of the others class a long-term trip as anything under three months. With my debit card at the point of accepting the fate of a man about to lose a limb in order to be extracted from a piece of heavy machinery, I made one last website visit – to Liverpool Victoria (the green heart, small cars, attractive women – fun adverted based on the fact that the acronym LV can be made to seem like the word ‘love’); at least I’d heard of them.

Nine months; a 57 and 52 year old; basic cover (don’t need cancellation insurance); both our pre-existing medical conditions covered; but no ski-cover – £264. How does that work? Really? We took it.

The same thing happened with insuring Doris. Like any vehicle she needs comprehensive cover and, whilst expensive beasts, motorhomes are generally cheap to insure. They do low mileages, are driven by old people at the same speed as a mobility scooter and everybody steers clear of them. For some inexplicable reason the moment you decide to live in them (which must reduce the chance of theft?) the insurance goes through the roof. Here I had done my research and had budgeted £1000 for Doris’ insurance. I phoned the company everyone uses (and apparently the only company that understands people who full time) and, have a guess what?, that’ll be £1000 please.

I but my lip. C suggested I phone someone else. So I did. I phoned the Caravan and Camping Club. Explained what we were doing, that we needed 365 days of European cover and we were living in Doris, although we used C’s sister as our home address. Yes that was all clear, thank you sir. Hold on whilst I get a quote. £248. What, sorry? Let’s be clear about what we’re doing for the next twelve months….yes sir, we get that. The price is as quoted. So how does that work? We took that as well.

Ok, so I’ve bored you all now. But there may be one or two full-timers who might now look to LV and the C&CC and if that’s the case then it’s been worth losing the majority of my small readership.

interesting hair Jen

I had fun in the Virgin Mobile store yesterday and, thankfully (and also maybe of some interest) sorted European comms out. In short it costs me nothing to receive calls abroad with Virgin no matter what my monthly contract is. Jen is on Vodaphone. It costs nothing for her to phone a UK mobile if its abroad (Virgin cost 90p per minute). Hey presto. Sorted. Jen can phone me abroad and it costs neither of us anything. We upped Jen’s allowance to unlimited calls and reduced my Virgin monthly to £5 a month as I won’t be using my phone abroad and even if I do I’d attract a European tarriff. The fun bit was that Virgin made a mistake changing my contract, so I went back in. As they sorted it I went round all of the display phones and stuck the Wanderlings front page on all of them – hah! The real bonus is that because they made a mistake I got an upgrade in minutes and data for my £5. I love Richard Branson.

We did some other shopping, I washed Doris and went for a run, and C dyed bits of Jen’s hair bright purple. I guess it’s an in-look (the woman who served me in Virgin had all her hair dyed various shades of purple and she wasn’t even from Eastern Europe) and as a father I have to nod vigorously and congratulate her on the colour. Notwithstanding the hair debacle, she is looking fabulous at the moment.

James doing something kitchen like between whiskeys

James doing something domestic between whiskeys

We popped across to James’ for supper (C cooked a magnificent Mexican – we threw away the sombrero) where James and I proceeded to drink a little bit more than we should have done. My excuse is that I drove every evening throughout the whole of the BFIW and was drier than unbuttered toast; I can’t speak for James – but he’s young enough not to care. But we did have good fun.