The rain in Spain

It doesn’t matter where you go, or how hard you try. You just can’t get away from insurance.

Clearly, even being in the middle of an ocean won’t suffice.

For my latest holiday (aka over-priced, under-sexed, upper-middle-class jaunt) I headed for the sunny climes of Southern Spain and Morocco. And, as it turned out, Gibraltar.

Half the point of going anywhere, after all, is being able to tell people about it.

Even though I was about as well prepared as on a typical Tuesday afternoon, I did at least have the one thing I needed if all else failed: travel insurance. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to check if it was ok with Biba before I bought it.

The policy came courtesy of my beloved bank, which shall remain anonymous, but sounds an awful like Bloyds PVC. The friendly folks at Bloyds were delighted to extend their offer to household cover, declaring triumphantly that it was among the cheapest in the market.

I said frankly it really was about time rates started going up, and that the policy was far more important than the price.

I also said that I needed my overdraft extended but luckily that part almost got edited out of the final copy. The manager looked confused, so I pocketed my Euros and hit the road.

But insurance still had its day. And, as it turned out, night as well.

Scarcely 48 hours later, from the dizzying twilight heights of Barcelona’s highest peak, my pretentious gaze was met by the unmistakable blue of "Allianz" perching atop a distant tower.

If only I could get a girlfriend, it might have been romantic.

The next day, the gaudy green and yellow shades were of Norwich Union advertising hoardings instead of Gaudi and Picasso.

Being [all] at sea made little difference to my thoughts. Having boarded a ferry for Morocco (via the said rock) I found myself wondering not how much the shoddy vessel was worth but rather who in their right mind would insure it.

The safety briefing no less than 20 hours into the voyage confirmed my suspicion that someone could be picking up a tab for a split hull complete with a healthy slice of corporate manslaughter in the not too distant future.

Despite severing myself from the European continent, there was no escape from the vile clutches of risk management.

Faster than you can say "Takafulofit", I stumbled across Axa’s office in Tangier. Heartened though I was, upon crossing the street – and narrowly avoiding untimely death – I found myself wondering how many Moroccans could actually afford motor insurance.

Yet on the other hand, with millions clearly needed as claims handlers, at least I could expect someone to listen – or better yet, a shoulder to cry on – when my rented car unceremoniously ate mountainside.

And, perhaps, a date. With the small print.