Maybe it's because I'm middle-aged and conservative that I'm suspicious of plastic money. After all, I'm still pathetically struggling to get used to the press-button computer age which my nimble-fingered grand-daughter takes for granted. I look on credit cards as an accident waiting to happen. In fact, the accident has happened to me - twice.
I use cards only when I have no other option. Admittedly, they are a great parachute in an emergency, especially when abroad on holidays, but not for daily use. To use medical phraseology, they have too many side-effects. Just like some people are afraid of flying, I have a fear of credit cards. It's much better to have a bunch of crispy greenbacks in my fist than that dangerous little bit of plastic.
About 10 years ago I was in London on business. I stayed at an enormous, luxurious hotel, rubbing shoulders with the mega-rich. Superstar Michael Jackson had a suite down the corridor and there was a bevy of tough-looking, armed security people strolling up and down nearby. Needless to say, Michael was in no danger from me. I wasn't going to burst in looking for an autograph. Maybe if he had been Nat King Cole or Fred Astaire, I might have been tempted. Everyone to his own era - no offence to Jackson fans.
Bottle of champagne
I don't know what Jackson's suite was like, but my room was quite opulent and was would have been ideal for a five-a-side football match. The pitch - sorry, the room - was laden with marble, mahogany, plush carpets and expensive drapes. At a quick glance I figured the bed could sleep five. It took a few seconds to get into it and 10 minutes to find my way out in the morning. In one corner of the room was a mini-bar, fully stocked with spirits, wines and long drinks. On a table in the middle of the room was a bottle of champagne, a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers.
The bathroom took my breath away. Cape Canaveral wouldn't have as many contraptions. The bath was so big you would need a lifeguard standing by as a precaution. There were so many towels that I began to believe they really did expect five to sleep in that bed.
When I arrived at the hotel there was a battalion of beautiful, impeccably dressed women receptionists there to greet me and welcome me to the land of How The Other Half Lives. After all the usual formalities, one of them asked me how I was going to pay: credit card, cheque or cash? I explained that mein host company was paying, but she wanted to know how I was going to pay for the "extras". I told her there wouldn't be any extras, having quickly deduced that a Mars bar or a bottle of stout in this establishment would cost the proverbial arm and a leg.
Credit card
To cut a long story short, I opted for payment by credit card, which she took and checked out. Big mistake on my part. True to my word, I did not spend a penny on extras. I come from an impoverished background that doesn't waste money, even when on expenses. Maybe this is old-fashioned or just plain stupid, but I don't get any kick out of pretending to be James Bond. Anyway, Bond is much taller than me and has more hair.
I had a very enjoyable few days and then came back to humdrum Dublin. A month later I got my credit card statement. What a shock! I was billed £30 for an unspecified item by the hotel. It may not be a lot of money in today's Celtic Tiger economy, but 10 years ago it could keep you going for a while. The hotel apparently had dreamed up some "extra". I was curious to know what the bill was for. Had some con-man given my room number for some purchase? (That happened me in a hotel in Killarney 20 years ago. When I was leaving I was presented with a huge bill for allegedly bringing five people to dinner.)
I wrote a polite little letter, querying the figure. Never got a reply. Being a quiet, unassuming person, who doesn't like rows or any form of trouble, I didn't take the matter any further. I never got in touch with the credit card company to fight the charge. Life is too short. However, the incident has left a scar and I never offer to pay by credit card in hotels any more if I can help it.
Even to this day, when I use my credit card, say for petrol, I have visions of the petrol pump attendant using my number and telephoning for four tickets to the next big pop concert. I also live in fear that the little card will be lost or stolen and some suspect will clean out my account. Therefore, I keep the spending limit on it down to the minimum, just enough to cover a plane fare.
It's all paranoid and stupid, I know, but once bitten. . .
Wallpaper
All this came back to me forcibly when I read in the Sunday Times about a man who wrote to the paper's consumer champion, Roger Anderson, saying he had stayed in a hotel in Scotland with his son and had £60 deducted from his credit card on top of the £129 bill for the room. He was, like me, indignant that this had been done without his authorisation. When he disputed the charge, the hotel told him it was for damage to the wallpaper.
Anderson, in his reply, said the man had not signed any contract agreeing to be liable for any damage to the room. "Under the 1974 Consumer Credit Act any subsequent deductions from your credit card therefore involved a variation to your original agreement. By making the £60 charge after you left the hotel, the hotel was thus in breach of both the Act and the credit card regulations."
I chuckled at that story. It gave me the perfect excuse for my paranoia. Then it dawned on me: maybe somebody had got into my room after I left and damaged the wallpaper. Or maybe the cleaner had broken into the mini-bar and scoffed a bottle of brandy. To this day, it remains one of life's little mysteries.