Cyprus may backtrack over the deal - but the damage has been done

Savers will be thoroughly spooked.

It's a shock to everyone - Cyprus stumbles, and Europe cuts the cord.

The Cyprus deal could be in the process of renegotiation, according to Reuters, but here it is as it stands: Cyprus has imposed a tax on all depositors down to the smallest - with a levy of 6.75 per cent on savings up to €100,000, and 9.9 per cent for those over-€100k. This may be legal, but it goes violently against the spirit of the new banking system everyone has been striving for since the 2008 financial crisis - where those with no responsibility are protected from the losses of those who take risks. These ideas were based on solid reason - if a gamble doesn't pay off, the gambler should pay - a principle that should result in banks controlling their own risks. To fly in the face of this seems like a backward step.

For Cypriot savers, it's too late for action  - you can withdraw as much money as you like, but charges are now fixed. This will be particularly galling for those with deposits up to €100,000 which were guaranteed under EU law, should the bank go under. The fact that the new deal is presented as a tax on these savings will be seen as a sneaky manipulation of a loophole in the law.

Another slap in the face to ordinary investors comes from President Nicos Anastasiades - who claimed yesterday that there was no alternative to hitting small depositors. This is not true - as there could simply be larger cuts over the €100,000 threshold. The 6.75 per cent:9.9 per cent ratio seems terrifyingly arbitrary.

This was the choice European leaders had over Cyprus: sovereign restructuring or losses for bank creditors. The second course was chosen - but it has been done in the worst possible way. They will not restructure the banks immediately, nor will it bail in unsecured senior bondholders. They will however damage the savings of ordinary people in a way that is not only immoral but also unwise - how keen will people be to deposit money in the bank now?

And there is the other problem. While the actual tax hit to ordinary people is much smaller than other hits resulting from bank bailouts, (British savers have been relieved of more than £43bn since the beginning of the financial crisis, which was used to prop up struggling financial institutions) it is the raid-like way this has been managed that is so psychologically damaging to Cypriot depositors. Even if, as Reuters suggests, the deal is changed so that small depositors (under €100,000) are not hit, the risk that come Tuesday a mob will descend on the banks and withdraw every last euro from their accounts is considerable.

The other undo-able damage of course will be political - the credibility of policymakers in the IMF and eurozone is getting ever closer to zero.

Photograph: Getty Images

Martha Gill writes the weekly Irrational Animals column. You can follow her on Twitter here: @Martha_Gill.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war