Wanderers return to holiday post to make the blood boil

The rise and rise of email means that a bumper bundle of post on a daily basis is a thing of the past, but a fortnight away produces a rich crop of post to be sifted through at leisure, once we have checked the voicemail on the phone to hear messages from testy fellows in Bangalore informing us they are from the technical department of Microsoft with bad news about our computer.

The latest batch of post was, as usual, 90 per cent junk mail and catalogues from anyone we have ever bought any clothes from, but there were a couple of items which made me feel as though I needed another holiday.

One was from the company which has been entrusted with looking after the fabric and contents of Hextol Towers for the past couple of years, and I noted that the annual insurance premium had risen rather sharply beyond the £300 mark.

That seemed rather steep to me, especially as we have not made any claims of any kind since a cinder jumped out of the fire many years ago and set fire to the cat, which made a runner for the curtains trailing smoke and flame.

However, it seems that the no claims bonus does not work on house insurance, and insurance companies are quite happy to take the cash of proven customers on an annual basis and give nothing back in return.

But what really stuck in my craw was that when I looked for alternative quotes on a price comparison website, there were my insurers – now ex-insurers – quoting over £150 less per year to strangers than to a proven low risk customer like me!

I have long held a deep mistrust of insurers, ever since Mrs Hextol found herself locked out of Hextol Towers one Christmas Eve, with the turkey, sprouts and other festive comestibles, in a temperature of -15C.

I rang the insurance company we were with at that time, seeking permission to break a small window to gain access, but they would not hear of it, and said we should call a locksmith – obviously the most simple of tasks the day before Christmas.

Luckily, a light-fingered acquaintance was able to get in with alarming ease before the turkey froze – the insurance was cancelled forthwith.

The other piece of correspondence which furrowed my brow was from the NHS with regard to my pending appointment to have my troublesome gallstones attended to.

I was initially impressed with the swiftness of the response to my visit to the GP’s surgery, but should have known better.

I was invited to ring a telephone number to discuss my requirements, but a little perturbed when the breezy voice at the other end asked me for my password.

“I haven’t got one,” I responded, at which the breeze became a chilly blast as the lady said she could do nothing for me without the magic words.

“You were given it by your GP,” she said with some asperity, and refused to believe that no such exchange of information had taken place.

I was eventually forced to hang up and ring the surgery, where I was eventually furnished with the open sesame to stomach agony relief.

I rang the appointments people back, only to find it was engaged – but the literature said I could conduct my business via the internet now I had a bona fide password and reference number.

I entered them both, and was somewhat mystified to be directed to what appeared to be a workshop on an industrial estate off the A19 in Newcastle, where my appointment was scheduled for around 1am!

I tried the phone number again, more in hope than expectation, and was surprised to learn that the workshop appointment was in fact a “ghost” appointment, to get in the queue for the real thing.

A week or so later, another letter arrived to say there were no appointments available in Hexham, but I would be contacted when one arose.

Having suffered an excruciating gastric attack the night before, I rang back to say I was prepared to go anywhere to have the job done – only to be told this was not possible, and I would have to wait until Hexham deigned to send for me.

Whatever happened to patient choice?