Yes, I was taken in by scammers – but I’m not the only one

Marvellous to learn that Rishi Sunak has found a money tree and is shake-shake-shaking it all over the shop, raining down gold on the nation’s restaurants, homebuyers and factory floors.

Not all businesses will be in need of a restorative shower, though. Some enterprises are already doing very nicely: bicycle manufacturers, hand sanitiser magnates and, my personal preference, the Gofundme fraudsters.

Why, just this week I gave them access to the contents of my bank account. By way of extra value, I was sure to follow up my password with my date of birth and mother’s maiden name. The only thing missing was my blood group, but that was only because I don’t know it.

I’ll get back to you with that later, guys, along with my eldest daughter’s middle name and the make and model of my first boyfriend.

If I sound upbeat about having been scammed, it’s because I have already been through the seven stages of pain, shame, humiliation, selfreproach, remorse, guilt and stigma. In truth, I feel terrible. Really terrible. And so, so stupid.

So much so, I have lost sight of the fact that I was targeted by criminals making ME the victim and, therefore, in need of tea and sympathy. In fairness, my husband lost sight of it, too, when I told him, a full 24 hours later because I was scared.

“How? Why?” he roared. And then came another massive “How?” before one great big “Why oh why…?”, by way of a finale.

The chap at my bank was much nicer. Much. Could happen to anyone, including (whisper it) a colleague. Possibly he made that up, but it was kind of him to empathise.

What can I say in my defence other that that financial fraud is on the rise – a distressing spike of 33 per cent during lockdown. So, yes, I might be gullible, but I’ve gotta lotta company.

By way of background: I consider myself wise to the ways of online fraudsters. I can recognise a fake invoice from Apple, a fake refund from the Inland Revenue and a fake notification from Amazon.

It’s been ages since I was spammed by a Nigerian prince or a cryptocurrency billionaire asking me to transfer Bitcoins into a dubious domain. Pretend hackers claiming they filmed me pleasuring myself in front of my computer screen (possibly on the Cox & Cox website…) no longer attempt to blackmail me.

Then, on Wednesday evening, I received an urgent text from my mobile phone company telling me they had “failed to process my latest bill” and that I needed to update my payment information.

In my defence, it was a single glass past wine o’clock. I should’ve known better. I did know better, but in my relaxed state, I instantly panicked and thought: “OMG, what will my teenage daughter say if she gets cut off?” So I clicked on the link. Just in case.

Instantly, I found myself on what looked very much like my mobile phone website, and off I went, singing like a proverbial canary, obediently providing all information – CVC number? Why, of course! – like a police informant snitching on myself.

But every time I answered, I found myself on another page, and another, until finally I twigged. My stomach in freefall, I immediately called my bank.

First, I became embroiled in a live chat. I was so paranoid, I kept demanding proof that my handler “Dan” was not a Russian bot – and when he failed to convince me, I baled and phoned them instead. Alas and alack; even if my shoe savings remain untouched, will I ever regain my trust?

According to credit referencers Experian and anti-scam agency National Hunter Fraud Prevention Service, the sharpest increase in fraudulent applications during Covid-19 has been for car and other financing, up by 181 per cent.

Current and savings account crime has also climbed, followed by fake credit card and loan applications.

Apparently, scammers use names and addresses of real people (that would be me) to take out loans worth thousands. Other fraud cases involve using details to raid bank accounts and steal large sums. Also me.

And did I mention the lymphatic drainage therapist to whom I paid several hundred quid before lockdown for a course of treatment, who has since gone AWOL with my money?

I didn’t like to ask for it back straight away as I guessed she might be in dire financial straits. Turns out she used my hard-earned moolah to do a runner and now won’t answer her phone.

Needless to say, I haven’t shared this anecdote with my spouse, not least because men don’t understand the distress of puffy hands.

Sausage-digits notwithstanding, I have done my damndest to thwart my financial fraudsters. But changing my passwords has been unspeakably stressful because long gone are the days of memorable places, names and dates. Here, in 2020, they must be exceeding unmemorable, with ampersands and punctuation keystrokes, or the computer says No. But as we are not supposed to write them down either, I have no idea where that leaves us.

In the trauma, I also appear to have forgotten both my favourite food and my favourite city, so now I can only access online banking by naming my favourite musical artist and my favourite sex position.

OK, maybe not the sex position, but I resent having to name my favourite anything; I am not Nick Hornby. I am not a linear man with a fondness and over-reliance upon lists.

As a woman, I reserve the right to change my mind, have joint favourites or no favourites at all.

After the exhaustion of the past few days, however, when it comes to fighting fraudsters, let me state for the record that I am prepared to be microchipped like my dogs, if it guarantees an end to digital security code hell. Slim fingers a bonus.

‘It was just gone wine o’clock when I got the urgent text about a missed payment…’