Diary – 5 March 2005

We are so used to reading of malpractice in high places that I dare say our sense of outrage has become blunted. But when some devious act affects us personally, the sense is re-ignited. This is the story that shocked me — my grandmother, who died in the Sixties, had a great love of buying elaborate, expensive furniture. Her other hobby was fiddling with her will. She was thrilled to find that if she left us things deemed to be ‘of national interest’, we would be spared some inheritance tax. My sister and I are now owners of furniture we’d like to sell but punishing tax would make that pointless. Keeping it, we have to agree that constant access to the public is possible. The Inland Revenue maintains a beady eye. Regularly we get letters from them asking if the stuff is still available to be seen. We assure them it is. In 30 years, neither of us has had a single request by anyone keen to view the rather dull objects. So it was a surprise when we got a call from a student studying furniture. Could she come and see a table? I suggested she took the bus from London: cheaper than the train. She said expense was of no account. I thought this strange, but remembered that there are some rich students. She arrived in a taxi — young, smart. Within seconds she confessed she wasn’t really a student, but from the IR, ‘just checking’. Five minutes later, her lie having gained her access, she was off in the waiting taxi to report back that we hadn’t secretly sold the table and scarpered with the money. Should a body such as the IR really stoop to such deception? My anger drained me of the energy to complain: feebly, I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere.