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With a fairly frightening birthday just a week away I am beginning to feel a little old and past it. My wonder years, the springtime of the greatest days of my life, my life and, seemingly, are over. Gone, never to return.
I will be twenty five Oh dear.
However a wee bairn my small old granny would say but I do not feel it.
Anyway, enough of my ramblings that were early and on with what I was really going to talk about; car accident claims in Ireland now.
So that is where the becoming old thing comes in.
With this horrible birthday just around the corner, the beginning of old age has brought with it a realization that I am beatable.
The idea of receiving serious personal injuries and causing a car accident was the last thing on my head. I was likely more frightened of getting caught and having my scrawny little legs whacked by my enraged mother with a wooden spoon but, I did my veins all the same with the E amounts pumping through it.
Playing with chicken was by no means the only death-defying thing the youthful me would gratify in but it does illustrate perfectly the fact which I considered I was protected from personal injury.
Not because it’d be an useless thing to do and not because I had likely get a thick ear from the driver that is bemused, but because I had be frightened I’d end up as strawberry jam on the tarmac and the auto would not stop.
An ensuing car accident compensation claim, personal injuries and a road injury are likely quite actual chances so myself believe I will ensure I stick to the pavement on way back home this evening.
But all this invincibility isn’t so quite near in the past.
My chariot was a corroding, knackered-outside old Metro with forty one horses’ power under the bonnet and a crazed teen holding the reins. Myself gave some welly to that auto and, boy, did not anyone unlucky enough to have ventured out onto the roads understand about it.
How myself managed to avoid causing a car accident is something of a wonder. My rev counter appeared to be forever in the red and every junction in Hampshire must have had a little rubber from my tires.
One especially dumb custom was my indulgence in a game created by several friends who also have poor and dangerous automobiles The Challenge that is 60mph. These buddies were the aforementioned Wham Bar lads who’d grown up, in body if not in head. Anyway, The 60mph Challenge was the critical culmination of any excursion to do burnouts in the nearby supermarket car park or see to McDonald’s to attach innumerable straws together to make a tremendous prodding stick that could subsequently be used from a space to poke the ill-fated youngster behind the counter.
This consisted of trying to reach 60mph before reaching the national speed limit sign and traveling along a particular stretch of road in our hamlet. Not such a difficult job in the, but then the expanse of road was just a hundred meters or so long and there was a roundabout in the middle of it.
No way would myself attempt that.
While I look back at those years spent ragging that rusty old Metro around the roads, without causing a car crash how I lived is beyond me. If myself attempted half of that stuff now I am certain I’d wind up either the issue of a costly car accident claim for compensation or six feet under.
So that is why, in my old age that is shrewd, I tut tut when I see some spotty child weaving in and out of the city traffic, speeding along country lanes and driving like a lunatic. I am able to see that they are so close to being on the receiving end of an automobile accident claim and causing a road injury but can not they?