Credit cards: If you don't flash the plastic then you can't call yourself a man

I once had a maths tutor (big, hairy man; very phlegmy; Chewbacca with a calculator) who told my mother that he considered me a late developer. I'm not sure what he meant by this, just as I don't think I will ever be long enough in the tooth to understand why the world feels the need to understand quadratic equations. Whatever his motivation, it certainly implanted in my mind the notion that I was somewhat backward when it came not only to the complexities of adult life, but also the technicalities of number crunching and, well, sums.

And while I am mindful that this is a column in the personal finance section of a top national newspaper, if you are new to this weekly sermon then I could not in good conscience proceed any further behind the false facade that I know what I'm doing when it comes to money – even though I have always been honest and have certainly never attempted to hoodwink readers into believing I knew what I was talking about. Just so we understand each other.

Perhaps the most obvious way in which I have displayed a lack of financial nous has been my attitude towards credit. In my defence, I have dealt with the misdemeanours that both pepper and besmirch my credit history once or twice in these pages. Perhaps I may have even touched upon my disastrous flirtation with credit cards.

The upshot of all this ineptitude has been that I really only became what you would call financially stable a few years ago, thanks mainly to the common-sense intervention of my lovely wife, who sorted out my checks and balances with a kind word and a consoling hug, only rarely relying on the persuasive properties of a concealed weapon. I have thus had a few years of calm.

However, an incident occurred during our recent trip to America that made me consider again the possibility of taking a leap into the chill waters of Lake Plastic.

As you will know, when you hire a car you are required to present a credit card – and given that I didn't have one (and haven't since I finally paid off my last one), my wife was required to act as my financial big sister and hand over her card.

Judging by the look that the car rental lady threw my way when she accepted my wife's Visa, she was in no doubt that my lack of credit card reflected a lack of something else in the darkest recesses of my trousers.

Mind you, her Cuban migrant old-school disgust at my threadbare machismo must have worked, because then and there I decided that it was probably time for me to get a credit card again.

So as soon as we got home, I did a bit of shopping around and applied for one – something to act as a useful emergency tool for defending my manhood in Florida and also act as an emergency fund should the need arise. As I write they are evaluating my suitability (the fools). I'll keep you posted…