I’m in south-eastern Sicily, heading back to my hotel after watching flamingos at a nature reserve, and as I’m driving along Contrada Vendicari, there’s a car parked by the roadside on the right with the boot open, the driver burrowing in the back.
It’s a narrow road so I pull left and just as I’m passing his vehicle there’s a thump on the side of my car. In the rear vision mirror I see the bloke hopping into his car and pulling out.
Seconds later he’s behind me gesturing me to pull over.
I drive on for another hundred metres to a driveway and he pulls in beside me. We’ve got a problem.
The driver points to his side mirror, hanging loose with just the wires still holding it to the car.
Along the side of my car, near the fuel cap, there’s a 50cm streak of black, sticky rubber which the helpful fellow is now rubbing with a cloth. It comes off easily, leaving nothing behind.
But there’s no damage to my vehicle. Not a scratch along the side, not a ding in my right-hand mirror, but his – he sighs, shrugs, pantomimes my car hitting his with a glancing blow and a bang.
It’s clear who’s at fault, isn’t it?
“Police,” he says. “Insurance”.
He’s calm and he looks like the sort of man you can do business with.
“How much?” I ask and straight off he…
