A telemarketer called and offered me a life of luxury, celebrity treatment and low interest rates if I chose his bank’s credit card.

He left a long message on my phone’s message box about how using the credit card will get me free stuff and just as he was sending me his mobile number, the space ran out and he was cut off mid-sentence.

If I had opted for the card, I would have got some amazing travel benefits and it would have opened the doors to some fantastic airport lounges across the world where one could get his or her shoes polished while waiting or nibble at mouth-watering snacks and sip on fizzy, mountain spring water.

When I fly, I usually travel cattle class and on our last vacation, we were all herded into an enclave before the flight took off so that we would not upset the other travellers.

The flight was an hour late and we shouted to our heart’s content, but nobody came to see what was happening. “We will get our own airline, just you wait,” shouted a gentleman from a southern state in India. I couldn’t match that statement, so I just grumbled under my breath.

When I finally got into my seat, the tiny space between the chairs made me feel as comfortable as if I was in one of the strait-jackets for violent, insane people such as Dr Hannibal Lecter.

“Please ensure that you do these simple exercises while sitting and enjoying the flight so that you do not die of embolism,” said the airline’s in-flight magazine cheerfully. “First, take off your shoes,” said the magazine, but I couldn’t, because my wife’s handbag was at my feet.

I asked my wife to hold her bag in her lap while I took off my shoes, but she objected. “No, don’t do that. You know your feet sweat and you will stink up the plane,” she said.

“There are other people who have already done that,” I said in a stage-whisper, looking at a well-fed person in the next aisle.

I squirmed and got my smartphone out of my pant pocket to look up what the heck is an embolism. Wikipedia told me that in medicine, an embolism refers to the lodging of an embolus, which may be a blood clot, a fat globule or a gas bubble in the bloodstream.

Reading about a gas bubble reminded me of refreshments and I looked around to see if there was a stewardess around who I could hassle, but she was busy handing out moist, warm towelettes like they do in an Asian restaurant.

Back at work and the telemarketer did not give up and caught me the next day in my office and started on his spiel on how I would get one free movie ticket for every ticket I buy with the card and how the sales staff at some international clothing chain would just adore me.

I cut him off and told him that I need another credit card like I need a gas bubble in my bloodstream. But I need money, cash, freshly-minted notes, I told him.

The next day someone from a fin-ance company called me and asked how much cash I wanted. I wondered if he was some fairy godmother who was finally answering my prayers.

I told him I needed Dh100,000 and he didn’t even gulp. “What’s your salary? Where do you work? Photocopy all the credit cards you have and send them to me, also all the bank statements for the last 10 years and your marriage certificate,” he said.

My colleague said she knows one person who was arrested while returning from his vacations after dealing with this finance company.

I hate it when someone offers me a good time at a terrible price.