I’m a cautious driver.

Having a child will do that to you.

I hate tailgaters and am scrupulous about never falling in to that silly, dangerous habit.

I try very hard to always stay below or no more than at the speed limit pertaining to wherever I am driving. And if I do find myself speeding, I am quick to slow down.

I am regularly appalled at the speeds so many people – including parents with children on board – travel through signposted school areas.

But I do have an achilles heel – I can get a tad absentminded when backing out of the driveway.

So it was earlier this week when I backed out and very gently bumped the driver’s door of the car of one of my neighbours with my rear bumper bar.

His car is not a recent model, but it is in sparkling, pristine, immaculate, shining condition.

But I was going at considerably less than walking pace.

The damage was about as little as is possible. About 10cm of scuffed paintwork, a slight indentation.

I went about my business for a few hours, mulling the situation over.

To ‘fess up or not?

In the end, I did what I was always going to do – and told my neighbour of my mishap involving his vehicle.

He was crestfallen, but goodwill seemed to win the day. After some consideration, though, he did maintain he wanted the damage rectified, as the reason he’d bought his car in the first place was its near-perfect condition.

We amiably compared notes on our different but equally financially fragile lives.

He said he’d get back to me after making some phone calls and talking to some people.

He got back to me this afternoon … and the news is rotten.

He’s talked to a couple of panelbeaters, and both our insurance companies – and it seems the minimum it’s going to cost to put the damage right is $1400.

My “excess” is $750 – so I’m going to be $750 out of pocket in terms cold, hard cash, not to mention whatever my insurance company penalises me in terms of no-claim status and so on.

All this for damage so minimal that it defied my very best efforts to photograph it.

I’m angry …

Angry at what seems like a cartel-like scam job between insurance companies and panelbeaters. It seems ridiculous to me that this sort of damage costs more than quite significant mechanical or electrical servicing and repairs.

Yes, I know labour costs are high … but still.

I did the right thing – and in the long-term I’ll no doubt be glad about that.

But in the short-term, it sucks.

At least our new home doesn’t have driveway for me to back out of – our car is now parked on the street.

Well, it’s mostly done.

Plenty of cartons of books and CDs to be unpacked.

Kitchen chaos, trying to fit all our stuff into a smaller space. Though there are plenty of cardboards.

No hot water yet, but that should be sorted before nightfall.

So I can enjoy a richly deserved shower.

Pay TV issues could take up to 10 days to resolve, but we got back online quick smart.

Not that it’s that big a deal in terms of moving house – we’ve just moved right next door after all.

But Bennie’s been a trooper.

And our next door neighbour and occasional food outing pal, Rob, spent the morning helping me with the heavy stuff.

Mind you, we did ditch the bulky, springs-are-shot sofa and armchair in favour of a Scandinavian retro number that is cool and much more in fitting with our reduced space. The old-school, hideous “entertainment unit” is gone, too. Though we still have an old-school telly!

I had no excuses for goofing off this morning, as the internet/phone and TV had already been cut off.

Naturally, getting some cool sounds happening in our new abode was a priority.

And the first tune to played be loud and proud in our new abode?

Why, Dulcie’s Song of course!

I wonder what the first meal I’ll cook in our new home will be?

It sure as heck won’t be tonight, that’s for sure.

I’m knackered!

We’re moving house.

No big deal and not very far.

But still, there are things to be done, utilities to be connected and disconnected.

There is much to be sorted and much to be tossed out. Because our new joint is much smaller than one we’re leaving. Much warmer and cheaper, too, mind you.

And last night there was a live Asian Champion’s League match featuring an Australian team.

It, too, went ignored for an hour or so.

Because – oh, how it is embarrassing to admit it – Team Consider The Sauce has become addicted to My Kitchen Rules.

It’s unclear how this has come about.

The process seems to have taken about two weeks, but has been one of insidious stealth.

There we were – well, there I was anyway – determinedly snooty about reality TV shows, and their foodie incarnations in particular.

And now here we are – hanging on every pronouncement, every kitchen meltdown.

Mind you, the idea that this show is real, that there is any “reality” of substance here at all strikes us as fanciful.

Villains such as Ashlee and Sophia just seem too preposterously cartoonish for that.

And the music? Used with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Alfred Hitchcock the MKR producers are not.

I’m sure there are websites, forums, Twitter conversations and the like where we could find about this stuff and all sorts of juicy conspiracy theories.

But we’re not that far gone.

Yet.

We do, however, wholeheartedly admire the skill and wisdom The Age’s Ben Pobjie brings to his regular MKR recaps.

A gem from this morning’s effort:

“Everyone just ignores Josh’s disgusting attempts at self-justification, preoccupied as they are by their own devastation at the news that Ashlee and Sophia aren’t leaving. Anyway everyone cheers and hugs and Ashlee and Sophia clap mildly, boredom etched on their faces: they’re not really interested in babies unless they’re eating them themselves.”