I have been claiming off one of my health policies in the last few months, which is perhaps why I had a call from two insurance salesmen this morning. Actually from a camel-coated Chief Salesman and a leather-clad Trainee, who sounded Polish and spoke very little.

I’ve been querying the company about something policy-related over the past month, so I hoped Chief Salesman would have brought answers for me, since letters have had as much response as dropping stones down a well.

Like Manuel at Fawlty Towers, however, the Chief Salesman “knew nothing.”

“Why are you at home today, Susan?” At least he got my first name right – something commercial databases tend not to do.

“I’m off sick,” I said, “which is why I’ve been claiming on my insurance policy. With you.”

His smile didn’t slip. “I see,” he said, as he brushed my husband’s breakfast crumbs off the section of the table he wanted to work on, and moved the placemat.

He telephoned the head office via his mobile – helpfully  on loudspeaker – in order to pursue my queries. Waiting through the inevitable Four Seasons, he encouraged me to increase my level of cover on a policy on which I am currently not able to claim.

After 15 minutes of being on Hold, the voice which spoke to Chief Salesman sounded bored and unhelpful. He disconnected instantly and called again. “That bloke’s useless. He’ll tell you everything but what you need to know. I don’t know why they haven’t sacked him.”

More Vivaldi.

“How much have we paid you on your present claim, Susan?”

The paperwork shows I’ve had about £300, about which he seemed unable to make up his mind; at one point it was, “£2 a day, hardly worth cleaning your teeth for,” and at another, “Well, we’ve done all right for you, wouldn’t you say?”

Form filling filled the rest of the time nicely.

After another ten minutes, he got through to a sentient being whose intelligence he approved, and the two simple questions I had asked by letter were at last answered. I thanked him, and signed a cheque for – wait a minute – how much did I just spend?

I’d glazed over under his cheery patter and upgraded the policy that I can’t currently claim on. Sure, he’d obtained answers to my questions, and shovelled a useless teleperson into deserved oblivion thus saving me the apoplexy I’d have had if I had phoned the company myself – but a half hour of his time certainly wasn’t worth agreeing to pay his company a further £266 a year. That’s nearly as much as their other policy had paid me for four months off work. But by that time my cheque was inside his file.

Chief Salesman and Trainee left still smiling, assuring me that: “Help is only a phone call away.” Oh yes, that was a really reassuring 25-minute demonstration you gave me.

“You have a lovely house,” he added, closing the gate carefully. Which by that time felt like salesman-speak for Or it would be if you kept it properly, You Slattern.

“Thank you,” I said through a fixed grin.

So tonight I am sitting at the spreadsheet programme. Over a ten year period, the insurance policy I’ve just upgraded is certainly going to cost me £2,660, and probably more, since the premiums automatically increase to cope with inflation each year (I must look to see if the putative payments expand similarly). As my most likely causes for claim are pre-existing health conditions, it doesn’t look like a very good gamble to bet £2,660 or more against the chance that in those ten years I may develop some other health problem so far unseen. (NB for non-British readers:  British employees pay National Health Insurance to pay for health services – and I’m more than happy with the service I’ve had from the NHS in the past year.) I think I’ll cancel the upgrade tomorrow.

Shall I put those premiums into a simple savings account? Even at the minimum 4.4% my bank is offering, at the end of ten years I’d have accumulated £3,660. Assuming the bank didn’t do a Northern Rock. Another assumption; another gamble!

Well, as for gambling, I can hardly have a worse eye for a horse than I have for insurance. I might as well take my £266 to Carlisle races and back my fancy. I could ration myself to a tenner a race. At six races a day, that’s roughly four days a year in the fresh air, watching the horses I love, adding spice to the sport, and quite likely winning something back. And I wouldn’t have to control my urge to take a hatchet to cheery, camel-coated insurance salesmen.

Though Flanders and Swann did propose a tempting recipe for the corpse.