Down the local, I asked for a pint of Burton Bitter, which was on special offer at £1.65. I handed over £2, but the barman didn't give me any change. As he began to serve another customer, I said, "Excuse me, I gave you £2 and you didn't give me any change." "Oh, sorry," he said, and he made for the till again . . . only to realise that some security measure prevented him from opening it unless processing a transaction. So he summoned the manager, asking: "Can we open the till for this bloke?" The barman pointed at me, explaining: "He gave me £2 for a pint of Burton, and I forgot to give him his change. He's owed 35p."
The manager turned and surveyed The Man Who Is Owed Thirty-Five Pence.
The manager opened the till, but then became distracted by another staff request. Afterwards, he scratched his head, as though to say: "Now where was I?" He looked dazedly in my direction. "Sorry mate," he said. "We owe you some money, don't we?" "Yes," I shamefully replied, "35p."
As the manager began to fish the money out of the till, I noticed a charity collection tub on the bar. It seemed to loom larger and larger as the change finally came my way. Obviously, the only honourable course open to me was to place the 35p into this receptacle, and I did so immediately after the manager handed the money over, but he turned his face away at just that moment, not noticing my magnanimous gesture. Half a minute later, he looked round at me again, and I could read his mind: "There's that 35p bloke again. He might at least have chucked it into the collection tub."
I am never comfortable about going out on a limb over small sums of money. This is not so much generosity on my part as unwillingness to be seen as ungenerous or petit bourgeois. It's an abiding theme of my life. For example, my accountant recently suggested that, if I became a limited company, I could - through some Thatcherite concession - save money on my income tax bill. This process required administrative effort. I had to inform the accounts departments of my various (too few) employers that I would be changing my status, and every time I put the phone down after making one of these calls, I imagined the ledger clerks all turning to each other and saying: "Andrew Martin Limited! It might sound good, but he's only doing it so he can save himself a couple of grand in tax every year."
Similarly, my wife will sometimes walk into my study with a voucher for some new credit card, saying: "You ought to transfer your balance to this one. It gives nought per cent interest for six months." I protest that I can't be bothered, to which my wife says: "By transferring this balance, you will save yourself £300 over the next year." "Maybe so," I reply, "but . . ."
Obviously, there can be no legitimate "but". Not for anyone in my financial position. I go ahead and move the balance, and feel very sordid for having done so. I actually feel quite sorry for the credit-card company that I've slighted.
I should have known there would be bother over that pint of Burton, because I generally refuse, on principle, to take advantage of any special offers or discounts. Every time I go into my local Caffe Nero I get offered a loyalty card. If I rack up ten cappuccinos, I will be given my eleventh free, but it seems like such a mountain to climb. What sort of person a) keeps that kind of card in their wallet and then b) actually remembers that they've done so? Every time I go into Tesco's I feel like responding to the cashiers' habitual question with the answer: "Do I look as though I've got a bloody Tesco Clubcard?" Can't they detect one of nature's aristocrats when they see one?
