As I approached the bathroom to wash I was wondering if we should go out for a meal. The expense is what bothers me, every time. But I thought about it and sense took hold and I thought 'of course we can afford an occasional meal out'. Frankly it's ridiculous to imagine we can't. Then I watched my hands as they unscrewed the top from the empty bottle of Carex, put an inch of water in, and shook the bottle. This is so the little bit of liquid soap in the bottom of the bottle, about the thickness of a coat of paint, isn't wasted.
Yes, I go round the house turning lights off. I sneakily nudge the thermostat down when she isn't looking. I freewheel down hill. I buy Morrisons own brand tonic and lavatory paper so cheap I have permanently brown fingers.
When my dad came to live with us I bullied him into letting me dismantle his greenhouse and bring it here, rather than sell it. He was so worried about the expense of the paving flags and what have you. But in his last few years he got massive pleasure from the greenhouse. I seriously think it prolonged his life. Towards the end he lived for it. I'd have to wheel him out to it and leave him there to tend his plants, and just sit, enjoying the birds and bees.
He worried so much about the cost though. He'd cogitate for days about buying grobags etc. Once, in exasperation, I worked out how many grobags he could afford if he spent all his money on them, then calculated how far from here they would reach if laid end to end. I think the answer surprised him. It surprised me. I confronted him with this fact and he grudgingly agreed to get four grobags. The thing is, when you get to the point of needing professional care the state won't bail you out until you're almost penniless -- but then they will. The answer, therefore, is obvious.
Many years ago I was in a queue at the Admiral, a chip shop in Maltby. I idly looked at the sheets of newspaper on the counter, and saw Money Mail's item, entitled 'The last cheque you write should bounce.' Before I had chance to read on the paper was snatched up and used for its primary purpose, and the parcel of chips and fish went out of the door. But I didn't need to read any more. 'The last cheque you write should bounce.' How very true.
Even further back in time, I was in the habit of hitching a lift to London to see my girl, since petrol had gone up to 4/6d a gallon. One time I got a lift in a big posh car. The guy wanted to moan. As we touched 90 he told me how he was like a mouse on a treadmill. "The more I earn the more they spend. Cars, horses, a swimming pool, there's no end to it." His wealth was not bringing him happiness. He dropped me off at Staples Corner, reached across to the glove compartment, and said, "Here. Rather you have it than them." It was £50 in fivers. At the time I was earning £13 a week.
I have a theory that I call my 'rocket fuel theory'. In essence is states that any penny I save now will be inherited by my children. They in turn will pass it down to their children. They, when they are old, will decide that there is no point in leaving any money to their descendants, so they will spend it on commercial space flights. Each hard-earned quid of mine will move a spaceship about an eighth of an inch towards Mars. I, meanwhile, will be in a happy state of non-existence, which is probably the only way I can ever not be worried about money.
Bill