There’s a particular kind of cold that hits you in early January—the kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to scraping ice off your car first thing in the morning instead of being wrapped in a blanket with a hot drink. That was me. First day back after Christmas. Snow on the ground. Office probably colder than outside. But I’d psyched myself up, gritted my teeth, and made it in.
I’d barely sat down—coat still on, fingers still thawing—when my phone buzzed. M&S Bank: we’ve temporarily blocked your card due to suspected fraud. Great. Just what you need on the first day back: existential dread with your morning coffee.
Then another message. Different number. Call us urgently.
Contradictory. Pressuring. Exactly the kind of thing banks tell you not to trust.
And that’s when the real problem began—not the fraud itself, but the fear of fraud. The fear that now sits like a parasite in the back of your mind, whispering, “What if this is the scam? What if the scam is pretending to warn you about a scam?”
Because here’s the thing: banks have spent years telling us to trust nothing.
Not texts. Not calls. Not emails. Not even the number that looks like it’s theirs.
They’ve trained us to be suspicious of everything—including them.
So there I was, in the office, trying to figure out whether the messages were real or whether some scammer had decided to ruin my week. I googled “can scammers hijack telephone numbers?” and the internet basically said, “Oh absolutely, they can pretend to be anyone.” Brilliant. Very calming.
My next logical step was to call the number on the back of my card—the one thing banks insist is safe. Except I didn’t have the card with me. I hardly ever use it, so now I was spiralling: Had I dropped it? Lost it? Was the fraud real? Was the text real? Was anything real?
I had to wait until I got home, powerless, stewing in uncertainty all day.
When I finally found the card (thankfully), I called the number. And even then, I couldn’t shake the doubt. Because the M&S website itself warns that fraudsters spoof numbers, mimic alerts, pressure you to act quickly. So how exactly is a normal person supposed to tell the difference between a genuine bank and a very determined criminal?
And then came the security questions.
Mother’s maiden name. Email. Employer. How I pay my bills.
All the things we’ve been told never to give out to someone who calls us unexpectedly. But here I was, calling them, and still terrified. Because the fear doesn’t care who dialled whom. The fear says: What if the call was intercepted? What if the line was redirected? What if the person on the other end is just very, very convincing?
And yes—let’s talk about the accent issue, because it matters. Not because of prejudice, but because of pattern recognition. We’ve been told repeatedly that many scam call centres operate from certain regions. So when a bank’s fraud line sounds exactly like the stereotype of a scam call, how is a customer supposed to feel reassured? How is that not a design flaw in the system?
I hesitated. I refused some questions. I answered others reluctantly. I was stressed, confused, and frankly angry that I was being put in this position at all.
Eventually, they confirmed it was fraud. My card was blocked. A replacement would arrive in 3–4 working days. That was days ago. Still nothing. And I’m still not entirely sure whether the whole thing was legitimate or whether I’ve just handed over personal information to someone who’s now opening accounts in my name.
This is the world we live in now: Fraud is so rampant that even genuine fraud prevention feels like fraud.
And that’s the real crisis.
Fear of fraud is becoming crippling. It’s paralysing people. It’s eroding trust. It’s turning every interaction into a psychological minefield.
Banks tell us:
- “Don’t trust texts.”
- “Don’t trust calls.”
- “Don’t trust numbers that look real.”
- “Don’t trust anyone who pressures you.”
- “Don’t trust anyone who asks security questions.”
And then—when something actually happens, they do all of those things. They text, they pressure, they ask questions. They sound exactly like the scams they warn us about.
How is the average person supposed to navigate that?
What could M&S have done better?
Plenty.
- Clearer, consistent communication. One message from one number. Not a scattergun of conflicting alerts.
- A secure in‑app notification system. If banks can show you your balance, they can show you a fraud alert without relying on spoofable texts.
- Alternative verification methods. Something that doesn’t involve handing over personal details to a stranger on the phone.
- Awareness of how their own fraud warnings create fear. If you tell customers “never trust a pressured call,” don’t then pressure them.
- Faster follow‑through. If you promise a replacement card in 3–4 days, deliver it. Otherwise the customer is left wondering whether the whole thing was a scam.
The bigger issue
We’re reaching a point where the public is so terrified of being scammed that they can’t trust their own bank. And that’s not sustainable. Fraud prevention shouldn’t feel like a psychological thriller. It shouldn’t leave people shaking, second‑guessing, or googling “can scammers intercept outbound calls?” at midnight.
If banks want customers to stay safe, they need to design systems that don’t mimic the behaviour of criminals. Because right now, the line between “fraud prevention” and “fraud panic” is razor thin.
And the people paying the price aren’t the scammers.
It’s us.
P.S.
At the time of writing, I still haven’t received the replacement card. If and when it arrives, I’ll update this. Until then, I remain in that modern limbo: hoping the bank was genuine, half‑convinced the scammers were better organised, and wondering why on earth any of us are expected to navigate this mess alone.
Rant and reason 