DIARY
DOMINIC LAWSON How very unwise of Mr Norman Lam- ont to have taken on the banks. No sooner had our incautious Chancellor announced that he would investigate the way the banks have failed to pass on the full benefit of his interest-rate cuts to borrowers than details of his National Westminster Access account debts became mysteriously and embarrassingly public. And those details meshed neatly with the revelations that the tax-payer had unwittingly contributed £4,700 to Mr Lamont's costs in evicting a 'sex therapist' (delightful euphemism) from his London flat. It is a tribute to the way in which the tabloid press is now dictating public debate in this country — on the monarchy downwards — that such trivia should decide whether or not Mr Lamont is deemed fit for his job. We should rather take our cue — as does Mr Samuel Brittan of the Financial Times — from the respect- ed periodical Central Banking. In its autumn issue, Central Banking has attempt- ed to discover exactly how much the Trea- sury blew permanently and irrecoverably on its hopelessly ignorant defence of the pound's parity with the deutschmark on Wednesday 16 September. The figure is close to £3 billion, which loss, says the mag- azine, is 'just as if Norman Lamont had personally thrown entire hospitals and schools into the sea all afternoon'. Or, put another way, it is a sum which would not only comfortably have covered Mr Lam- ont's legal fees, but also his Access over- draft and, for that matter, the overdraft on every Access account in Britain.
Mr Lamont is not the only notable suffering harassment by National Westmin- ster Bank's credit card bloodhounds. Another is Sir Stephen Spender. The great poet has sent me a letter he received from National Westminster's card service department. It begins 'Dear Sir Spender - • . ' (If you say that quickly, you get Nat West's little joke). 'Sir Spender', claims the bank, is in arrears on his credit card to the tune of £23, and thus is to be served with 'a default notice under Section 87 (1) of the Consumer Credit Act 1974'. Among the dire legal threats heaped upon the head of 'Sir Spender' by the bank if he does not cough up, is that 'any points awarded to you under our air miles scheme will be Withdrawn'. So there. 'Sir Spender' tells me he has replied as follows:
Dear Sir. For utterly ridiculous letters this is hard to beat. To save yourself and myself all this trouble, all you need do is arrange that monies in one account of mine which is in credit are paid into the other one to which they are owing.
What an elegant solution. I am passing on a copy of 'Sir Spender's' letter to Mr Lamont,
in case the same idea has not yet crossed the Chancellor's fertile financial mind.
here are interests other than the banks which it is unwise to take on. The Metropolitan Police for a start. But I am sorely tempted. One morning in mid-Octo- ber I parked my car in Clarendon Street, SW1. Like most parts of central London this is a road liberally sprinkled with yellow lines and residents' parking spaces. I have a resident's parking permit for that area, but on this occasion it would not have been necessary: I spied a four-yards-long length of kerb which was undefiled by any pro- hibitive or exclusive marking. There I neat- ly parked my car. On my return I found it had been clamped. It was necessary to pay £60 to the police in order to free the vehi- cle. Naturally I complained, pointing out that the car was parked legally. After over a month's deliberation the Met has finally replied. Policewoman Mrs D. Farley has written to me, politely saying, 'Although there is a gap in the yellow line approxi- . . and the referee's giving him the card for that one.' mately four yards . . . where the local authority originally intended the line to exist, the parking restrictions still apply.' We Londoners are in deep waters now. Not only do we have to avoid parking on yellow lines, we must also avoid parking on imagi- nary yellow lines. Doubtless we shall soon be suffering on-the-spot means-tested fines for going through imaginary red lights, for failing to stop for pedestrians at imaginary zebra crossings, for driving the wrong way down imaginary one-way streets. But I must take my hat off to the girls from the Met: I had never imagined that they were so imag- inative.
Meanwhile, in another part of our great city, the famous Indian restaurant, the Veeraswamy, has invented the imagi- nary service charge. We are all too familiar with the habits of restaurants of charging a compulsory 15 per cent service charge, and then leaving the bottom of the credit card bill blank, inducing us to add our own vol- untary service charge. But the Veeraswamy has discovered a new wrinkle. I am grateful to Katherine Mattock, a reader of The Spectator, for bringing it to my attention. She went to the Veeraswamy, and had a self-service lunch. When she got home she noticed that the bill included a service charge of 15 per cent. She asked for a refund. The manager, Mr Rajesh Sun, replied: 'The service charge is for many dif- ferent things: 1. Air-conditioning in room. 2. Nicely washed and starched cloth nap- kins and table cloths. 3. Pure silver cutlery you eat with. 4. Nice music to make you relax while you are eating. 5. Comfortable chairs and sofas you sit on. 6. Nice crystal glasses which you drink from. Ms Mattock [and here I imagine Mr Sun i drawing him- self up to his full height] service charge is not put on your bill because we served you.'
Later this month I will, God willing, become a father. Over the past eight months I have fantasised about what sort of child will emerge. And naturally these fan- tasies have tended to be of an infant of rare gifts and intelligence. But then at the week- end I read of the extraordinary Nicholas MacMahon, a four-year-old who is studying at university. Master MacMahon could speak French before his second birthday, could read before he could speak, and was chatting to his parents before he was one. Soon after he was correcting his father's spelling of words like 'caterpillar'. I read all this, saw the pictures of Master MacMahon frenetically playing the violin, and (appar- ently) driving a car, and thought: Please may our child not be gifted. Average will do nicely.
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