I set out to pay somebody this morning using the on-line banking facility provided by my bank. Their concern with security has prompted a recent tightening of their security measures. Now, in order to make an on-line payment, I need to wait for them to text me a six-figure security code before I can continue with the transaction. (That is, in addition to the security measures I need to take in order to get into my account in the first place.) Now, it seems, they have introduced yet another level of security. They then send you a text message asking you to confirm that the transaction really has been authorised by you, before completing the deal.
This can be more trouble than you might think because inside our very old, stone-built house it is not possible to send/receive text messages in every part of it. The place where the computer is sited is possibly the worst location in the house. This morning I found myself running from one end of the house to the other to finish the job. My final text failed. There was nothing for it but to engage the customer service chat line. As usual there was a queue …. I started at number 14. “Jack” at the other end of the line was very helpful and efficient when I reached him, and the problem was sorted. It would have been almost as quick for me to get into the car and drive into Bradford to the branch office, and make the payment in person. The loss of my time, of course, was nothing in comparison with the loss of my good temper and general sense of well-being.
I enjoy those TV programmes that investigate the authenticity of paintings which somebody believes might possibly be rediscovered works by an “old master”. The meticulous scientific and documentary detective work that goes into these projects is fascinating. Of course, it is entirely understandable if somebody comes along and offers to sell me a Degas original discovered in his granny’s attic. I would be hyper-cautious too. I have been staggered recently reading about the prices which the work of artists with even a modest historical reputation can command in the big auction houses. If their name is common knowledge the prices can be breathtaking. A Paul Signac went for £7.6 million at Sotheby’s recently, and a Franz Marc for £4.1 million. If that much money were at stake I would be cautious too. All I wanted to do, however, was to pay a bill for £100. There really is a point at which a proper concern for security tips over into paranoia.