The stigma of “Card Not Authorised”

So there you are, standing in the supermarket, waiting for your Dhs 200 bill (for some yoghurt and a fish finger – you know the shop I mean) to go through, when the sales assistant looks back at you and says, “Not authorised.”

And is it something in my head, or something more tangible – something about the way she looks at me, or in the tone of her voice – that says, have you even got Dhs 200 in your account? Are you trying to pull a fast one in the grocery store? Why aren’t you carrying cash anyway? It’s only Dhs 200!

I’m immediately on the defensive, especially once all the ladies in the queue behind me look daggers at me. They shuffle from foot to foot, tut, look at their Longines watches and think about how they’re going to be late for pilates.

IT'S NOT MY FAULT!!!!!

I want to say, “But there’s a million Dirhams in the account. It’s utterly absurd that your stupid machine has refused the transaction. Clearly, the fault is on your side not mine. I mean, look at me! Do I look like I can’t afford some yoghurts and a fish finger in your (albeit overpriced) store? My bag is a genuine Tod’s.  Do I look like a criminal?”

Sometimes, I feel I should carry bank statements as proof of status.

“Try again,” I bark, more harshly than I intend, but the bark usually carries all the emotion of the above sentence, which remains unsaid.

She tries again and shakes her head, showing me the useless slip of paper with the thick letters of shame inked upon it. The pilates ladies chew their lips and look at their baskets of groceries, wondering if they can get though the day without their chocolate croissants / instant cappuccino mix / Monster Munch. Should they just cut and run?

“Could it be your machine?” I ask. There’s another audible tut from the queue.

The sales assistant sighs and clomps off to the next till.

Oh, bingo, it works. It goes through without a hiccup. I’m exonerated. The shame is not mine.  But is there ever an apology? Is there?

Dear financial advisor / Dear bank.

I don’t know at which school you trained, but let me give you a quick crash course. If you want me to get your hands on any my family’s hard-earned cash, please pay heed to the following:

-          Cold-calling at lunchtime, school pick-up time, kids’ dinner-time, bath-time or bedtime will get you nothing more than an irritated “not interested”.

-          Asking me “when’s a good time to call?” will also get you a curt reply. You want this call, not me! If you push it, the answer’s “never”.

-          Getting my name wrong will never impress me.

-          If you think I’ve got to the age of 40 and had two children without planning my financial future, you’re underestimating me. That’s doesn’t make me like you.

-          Telling me I’ve been selected as one of “Dubai’s highest earners” makes me realise how badly informed you are. I am a housewife. My income is zero; it’s measured in the heart, not the wallet.

-          Telling me I’m a valued client when I closed my accounts with your bank in disgust back in 2007 isn’t a good introductory sentence.

-          Telling me I’ve been selected for a preferential mortgage rate is, quite frankly, ridiculous. One, I already have a house, and two, do I have to say it again? I have no income!

-          Sending me a gold credit card that I haven’t asked for just embarrasses the courier as I will foam at the mouth, curse the bank and refuse to accept delivery.

-          Assuming that because I’m a housewife I have all the time in the world to “meet for coffee and a chat” (“Everyone has time for a coffee, don’t they, Mrs Dubai?” Um. No) insults me.

-          Asking to meet me in Costa Coffee makes me feel uncomfortable. Do you really expect me to divulge me family’s financial status in a public coffee shop? Seriously?

-          If I agree to see you, calling me up from your car to tell me that my house doesn’t exist, just because you can’t find it, makes me wish you didn’t exist.

-          And, finally, you turning up in a car that cost more than my house makes me want to lock the door and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

Kind regards,

Mrs Dubai