The Thomas Crown Affair, eBay and me

For I have discovered eBay and, as with many converts, a spate of fanaticism has ensued. The fact that there are 114 million registered eBay users worldwide, and that I am just one of the one million British users who have signed up since March this year - bringing the UK total to 7.7 million - is no particular consolation. At least not financially. This week, figures from the Office of National Statistics reported that internet sales have more than doubled, from 19 billion in 2002 to 39.5 billion in 2003 (the most recent data available). The home-ordered shopping portion is a whopping 11.4 billion. And 2004 is predicted to be the first real on-line Christmas bonanza, pushing on-line purchases towards ten per cent of all sales.

So my latest little vice is hardly exclusive, which may be why it caused an unexpected flash of anxiety at Visa HQ. One Monday morning, my mobile phone rang and a woman’s voice told me there had been "unusual activity" on my credit card. The most "unusual" activity on my credit card would be no activity at all, but in this case what had alerted the fine people at Bank of Scotland Visa was an internet purchase. "And you have not previously bought anything on the internet" the concerned voice told me. Thus, with my very first purchase, I had to make a full confession.

Having therefore been hung as an internet sheep, there seemed little point in behaving like a lamb. After all, eBay is the world’s biggest jumble sale, listing 25 million items at any one time. Key in anything from diamonds to rubber gloves, used trainers to Rolls Royces, a private jet to an ashtray made of hard-baked dog poop, and you’ll find it listed here. Alongside will be a catalogue of "related items" to segue you effortlessly into the cyber wonderland of things you barely knew existed, but suddenly feel a strangely urgent need to possess.

And those tiny, passport-sized pictures certainly help. Like faded beauty by candlelight, one can’t quite see the flaws. Even the enlargements have a beguiling, come-hither opacity, described in the seller’s full turbo-charged purple prose and whole new language of acronyms. Two months ago I hadn’t the faintest idea that BNWT meant brand new with tags, and I thought an ex con was someone who had served time at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not an item in excellent condition. But one learns fast on eBay. Just as the founding band of Silicon Valley Californian computer nerds did back in 1995. French-Iranian programmer Pierre Omidyar had the idea of auctioning off a faulty laser pointer, and compiled a makeshift web page to do it. When someone made a bid of $15 for the pointer, he realised that this could be the start of something big. He then asked his friends if they had anything they wanted to sell, and compiled a list which included used toys and a pair of autographed underpants. They all sold.

Initially, there was no fee for a listing, but as the site swiftly expanded, Omidyar charged a small percentage of the sale price to cover his internet fees. It took two years, and thousands of quirky enthusiasts before Omidyar borrowed $5million in venture capital and relaunched his on-line bazaar as eBay, named after the Echo Bay site of the technology company where he used to work. Even then, it retained the feel of a Berkeley college campus, with an emphasis on community spirit, and considerate behaviour. People posted lyrics from their favourite songs and invited community singalongs on Friday evenings: the cyber version of singing in the shower - one voice, but a very big chorus.

From the start eBay attracted pranksters, offering human body parts for sale, and even a human soul on one occassion. All this has had to stop. eBay is now a serious marketplace from which an estimated 150,000 people worldwide make a living. Omidyar himself has gone back to Paris, along with his 4.2 billion fortune. And there is now a prohibited item list which includes corpses, firearms, drugs and pirated goods.

Enforcing these strictures is rather more difficult than announcing them, however, and eBay suffers as much as any other business from frauds and scams. With an e-mail address, a PO box and plenty of brass neck, it is not very difficult to sell goods one simply doesn’t own, or palm off fakes as originals. Even honest sellers usually specify that they will only accept returns if the item has been mis-described. And though eBay has a disputes resolution department, once the "bid confirm" box has been clicked, the contract is legally binding and bid retractions difficult. These remain logged beside buyers’ names as an eternal badge of shame, while a feedback system records the behaviour of the seller - though in some cases not fast enough. This summer, a couple from central Scotland returned home from holiday to find themselves at the centre of a 1million fraud investigation concerning the sale of non-existent mobile phones. With minimum bids of between 100 and 200, and bidders clicking away throughout the world, this sort of scam can furnish a very lavish lifestyle, even though eBay quotes the fraud rate at one hundredth of one per cent of sales.

This tiny percentage brought no cheer to Tom and Carol Shead, from County Durham, who successfully bid 5,000 for a diamond-encrusted Rolex with a retail price of 25,000. A week later, they received their purchase from the United States: a photograph of the watch. When the FBI investigated, the seller, a student in Seattle, said that his wording made it perfectly clear that he was selling a photograph and not the actual watch.

At a less audacious level, teenagers who have been using computers all their lives have been quick to realise it is safer and simpler to sell the ill-gotten gains of burglary and shop-lifting via eBay than to risk touting it around local pubs.

But so much for the downside. The upside, that thrill of apparently limitless availability, the buzz of bargain-hunting, and the adrenaline rush of bidding has captivated millions, including those who really have no need to hunt for cheap purchases. It was certainly a surprise when Jemima Khan confided that the dress she wore to her mother’s book launch was a vintage Azzedine Alaia which she had bought on eBay for 1, and when Cherie Blair admitted buying shoes for herself, and an alarm clock for her son, it was clear that eBay had touched even the august.

And those parcels are a delight, even when their contents disappoint. For there is no such thing as tat any more. Only a potential sale of a "unique treasure" or a "vintage gem". I opened one such last week and had to spray the kitchen with air freshener to combat its unique and very, very vintage odour.

This purchase, sadly, was not my greatest eBay disaster. That occurred some weeks ago, late on a bleak, wet, cold Sunday night, much cheered by a rather good bottle of red wine. As I finished the first glass I had keyed in "cashmere" and was scrolling down the hundreds of items listed until the cursor arrived at "exquisite 100 per cent cashmere and silver fox suit from the French couture house Celine, part of the collection designed for the movie The Thomas Crown Affair with Pierce Brosnan and Renee Russo ... " The details ran on for many paragraphs. I clicked back to the top, where the starting bid is listed, read the figure, laughed, and moved on. A couple of hours (and another couple of glasses) later, I was still "browsing", so I clicked on the Celine suit again. It was looking really sensational now, and its measurements seemed mathematically possible - as long as I had no plans to move in it. Good lord, it was a positive bargain. An investment. And before my left hand knew what the right had done, I had clicked the "bid confirm" box. The next morning I awoke to that creeping sensation of doom when you know something bad has happened but can’t remember what it is. I slunk back to the computer. I had indeed done it - and won it. I was now the proud owner of a four-figure price tag suit I had neither seen nor tried on. A suit I could not spot on any of the three re-runs I played of The Thomas Crown Affair video (though I did see Renee in a sweater with a similar collar). What had I done? And where was the 24-hour neurotic nerd helpline? Why didn’t they save me from myself? There were no answers to these questions. And no relief from the guilt. Which lasted for ages. Until this week, in fact, when I found myself sitting at the computer again, quite late one at night ...

• eBay UK