Years ago, and I really mean years ago, when I’d bought my first decent car, which was my uncle’s low mileage 1953 Prefect, with just 17,000 miles on the clock, my mother insisted on me taking out insurance. I think from memory that she may have even had it in her name, with me as the nominated driver. That was back when insurance companies turned a blind eye to the rort that parents of feckless teenagers would insure cars for their offspring in order to dodge the high premiums for high-risk drivers.
