TO tip or not to tip? This is not a dilemma that appears to trouble rap star Jay Z, who is reported to have spent more than $90,000 in a New York bar recently - leaving a whopping $11,000 tip. The multi-millionaire, on a night out with friends, is said to have bought around 40 bottles of champagne, racking up a bill that came to what it would take me years to earn.

I guess when you’re spending that kind of money, any tip you leave isn’t going to be small change. But, by anyone’s standards, $11,000 is pretty generous. It got me thinking about the etiquette of tipping, why we tip some workers and not others, and whether we should be tipping at all.

It’s an issue we encounter in various walks of life - eating out, booking a taxi, having a haircut. I see it as a goodwill gesture; acknowledgement of a friendly face or good service. But, where tipping was once left to our own discretion, it’s increasingly being taken out of our hands. Often, paying a restaurant bill by card, there’s an option of pressing ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to a tip, and if you choose to add one there’s either a pre-set gratuity or an amount of your choice. You’re left to sweat it out while the waiter/waitress stares at you, making a silent judgement through their frozen smile. It’s beyond awkward.

I prefer to leave cash, but I never know if it’s enough. My partner flatly refuses, pointing out that nobody tips him in his job so why should he tip other folk for doing theirs? He has a point but, having been a waitress, I feel obliged to tip in restaurants and cafes, unless it’s bad service.

I also find myself tipping hairdressers and saying “keep the change” whenever I get a taxi, coming over all Lady Bountiful because I’ve made tedious smalltalk with a monosyllabic cabbie for five minutes.

In America tipping is almost a national sport. A couple of years ago I went to New York with my sister and we quickly realised we should have budgeted for tips, because New Yorkers expect to be tipped for EVERYTHING.

Arriving at our hotel, a morbidly obese porter was called to take us to our room. Before we could say, “It’s fine, we’ll find it,” he was wheeling our cases to the lift. By the time he’d squeezed himself and our luggage in and out of it he was wheezing. We followed him, slowly, along corridors, expecting him to collapse each time he stopped to wipe sweat off his face. We’d have reached our room without him in half the time.

He didn’t utter a word. I asked where Times Square was and he gestured impatiently towards the fire escape. When we were finally in the room he stood, panting. He was going nowhere without a tip, so I pulled out a 10 dollar note. He snatched it and shuffled off, saying nothing.

Over our four-day trip we handed over a small fortune in tips to restaurant, bar staff and an intimidating driver taking us to the airport who kept asking whether his tip was cash or card, despite a service charge already included in the pre-paid fee. Americans pride themselves on good service, and expect tips. But even with bad service we felt obliged to tip - it’s not that easy to ignore a borderline-aggressive cocktail waitress holding her hand out.

“Here’s a tip, love: learn some manners,” is what I didn’t say, reaching for my purse.