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'We get extra money whenever we respond to a call-out,' said Tor, leaning on his motorcycle, one of the tools of his trade.

Another is a wind jacket he wears, emblazoned with the word ‘Lawyer’.

In fact, he is not a lawyer, but the company he works for is known by that name.

A man in his 30s, Tor works for an insurance company contractor.

He and his colleagues whizz out to the scene of motor vehicle accidents to take down claim details from motorists.

'The call-out centres are staffed 24/7. If we are not responding to call-outs, we can sleep.

‘That's the good part about the job. The bad thing is the weather. It is hard to make a sketch of the scene and take pictures of an accident scene in the dark, or when it is wet,' he said.

In Thailand, motorists involved in an accident start the claims process at the scene.

In the West, at least where I come from, motorists do not need to dally. We swap vehicle registration numbers and contact details at the scene; otherwise, we submit our claims when we get home, and the insurance company does the rest.

No so here. Insurers send agents as soon as they are informed of an accident. Often they turn up on motorcycles within moments of an accident happening.

Traffic which has built up behind an accident may clear only after they have finished collecting details. Tor and the other staff make sketches of the accident scene, inspect vehicles for damage, take photographs, fill out claims forms, and ask motorists who caused it.

If motorists cannot agree on who was at fault, they call police. While police can point out who did wrong, motorists are not obliged to agree. If the two parties still fail to agree, they can take the matter to court.

But whether or not it gets to that stage, Tor and his colleagues still have plenty of forms to fill out.

They work for a man called Boss, who runs seven call-out centres in Bangkok.

I teach English to his two children at their home, a three-storey shophouse which also serves as his place of work, in Pin Khlao on the Thon Buri side of town. I meet Boss, Tor and his pals every week on my way to teach the kids.

I teach on the second storey of the shophouse, but I pass Tor and the other insurance workers in the carpark, or in the office on the first level, on my way up.

The spare room where I teach also serves as a meeting room, where Boss can discipline errant staff when he wants privacy, he confided once. If I want to visit the toilet, I mount yet another flight of stairs to the third floor, where the children and Mum and Dad share a bedroom.

Often I arrive at the shop to find Tor and his pals shirtless. If they get a call-out, they don their shirts and smart wind-jackets with the company's name on the back. At least half a dozen motorcycles are parked out front, ready for the agents to use.

Last week, Tor, and Nat, another employee in his late teens, were having a smoke when I walked in.

A bunk next to them was occupied. Two agents, wearing workclothes, were sleeping next to each other on the same mattress.

Tor is in his late 30s or early 40s, married, and bored. Nat looks barely out of his teens, but has a girlfriend. He wears cute fuzz on his upper lip, and hair falls into his eyes.

We chatted briefly as I took off my shoes ready for my ascent to the second storey.

‘What are your plans?’ I asked Nat.

'I want to save for a car or motorbike, and then a house, just like anyone else,' he replied.

As rain fell softly outside, I looked at his soft fuzzy-chin features.

'Have you known your girlfriend long?' I asked.

'We met when I was 16. But she had already lost her virginity,' Nat said, sadly.

'Times have changed since we were young,' Tor told me philosophically. He was referring to the time that he and I grew up. 

'Lust came along, and she gave in to it,' said Nat.

Accidents in bed can happen just as fast as those on the road, it seems, with consequences which are just as permanent.

Still, at least they have each other. For a lad of his tender age, I thought, it would not be much fun leaving work on a rain-swept night for an empty home.