I just want to say, “What a racket!” God I wish I were an insurer. Imagine I’m an insurer. First, the law of the land mandates people to buy my product. Sweet!
Second, I can ask people for any detail about their lives and they have to tell me, even if it’s incredibly intrusive. I fully expect to field questions on number of sexual partners/ colour of underwear one of these days. That’s another plus.
Last, I don’t even have to do any work. Taking money in, I let a tame actuary fiddle about with tables and statistics and probability distributions and other irrelevancies and then I ignore all of that and just make up a number I think I’ll get away with. Then when people try to take money out I ignore them until the percentage who lacked real commitment just give up and go away and I threaten the rest with some vague mutterings about the horrors of a life without a No Claims Bonus. And if claimants are really insistent I send out a claims adjuster (for the avoidance of doubt the verb “adjust” in this context means “reduce”). This professional bully craps all over the policy holder’s (“sucker’s”) sense of worth. That’s mainly their sense of self-worth but also their valuation of the insured object. Finally I cut them a cheque for some fraction of their entitlement and then jack up their premium by the same amount and leak some sensitive private information of theirs to work colleagues, life partners or online fraudsters. Suhweeeeeeeeet!
Ah, to be an insurer when summer’s in the air!
P.S. Did I mention it’s a cartel.