So, an update regarding the MF car insurance. I finally cashed the cheque, only to be told the very next day that my dad was selling his car. I initially thought this was just something he was considering, like the loft extension he’s been planning for the last 40 years. I thought nothing more of it.
But the very next day, my dad called me on my mobile—on a working day. This never happens. I didn’t even know he had my number. He’s never phoned me on my mobile before. He thinks it’ll cost him millions of pounds.
Without so much as a hello, he asked me if I had his car’s record book. I nearly shit myself on the spot—my bowels were holding me to ransom. Me? Responsible for paperwork? In this house? I’ve got over 15,000 unread emails in my inbox. Paperwork is not my thing. I had two choices:
- Say no.
- Say I’d look for it—which would require follow-up.
I chose no. But not just any no—I said it with conviction. I made myself bigger on the phone, my voice deepening like I was suddenly the voice of God.
He quickly backed down and said it might be somewhere at home. I asked him why he needed it. He said someone had come round, and he wanted to sell the car to them. I told him point-blank not to let this person leave with the car. He reassured me, “Of course not—not without payment.”
I started Googling how to sell a car because fuck knows what the process is. I told him I’d order a new logbook, which would take about seven days to arrive. He said fine, and we left it at that. Oh wait, he also asked me to cancel the fucking car insurance.
The cheque had just cleared, and now I had to deal with this. I could either phone the insurance company or try to remember my bloody password to cancel it online. Naturally, I forgot to do it the next day because I’m a full-time working mother of two, stuck in the vicious circle of bloody feminism. Now we get to go to work, bring home the bacon, and do everything else. One kid gets ill, there’s parents’ evening, and now I’m selling a car and cancelling insurance. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, you’re not the fucking donkey in your relationship.
That evening, he called again to ask if I’d sorted the insurance. I said no. Then he told me I’d better get on it because the man had taken the car.
WTF?
What happened to the explicit instructions I gave him? I had so many questions.
“Did you notify the DVLA about the ownership transfer?”
“Do you even know the name and address of the person who bought the car?”
And then I found out that “bought” was a very loose term here. No money had exchanged hands. He didn’t know the man’s name, but proudly told me, “He lives near the chemist on Bridge Road… or somewhere there on the left.”
What?
He then asked me to notify the DVLA. At this point, I fully expected Jeremy Beadle to pop out with a camera crew. But no—this was now my problem.
This man had not only agreed to sell the car for less than its market value (or, technically, gifted it for free) but also left it insured under his name, registered in his name, and let the guy drive off into the sunset. My dad’s main concern? The £250 insurance refund.
I asked if the guy had sent a picture confirming the ownership transfer. My dad said no but assured me he’d “watched him do it on his phone.” My dad can’t see properly and can barely read, so this was not reassuring.
He said the man would come back the next day to give him his name, address, and—oh yeah—the money. Spoiler: the guy didn’t come back. Not that night. Not that week. Just tumbleweed.
My dad went suspiciously silent. No more phone calls about the insurance. He knew he’d messed up. On day 10, the guy finally turned up with the money.
This, in a nutshell, is my dad—unwavering faith in every new person he meets. It was at home he expressed his cynicism.
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