When I explained to the beggar he was richer than me he pressed 20p in my palm

IN a bid to fund a “combi-boiler” and new, bespoke bathroom, my wife has taken a leaf out of the government’s books and introduced severe financial rationing. Students can vandalise property in protest over the cutbacks they face. I can’t. What’s burning my own three-piece suite going to achieve?

I don’t mind the new budget announced by my wife. In all honesty, I’d prefer to know what a new combi-boiler is – a cross between a combine harvester and a boiler, perchance?

A boiler that doubles as a comb? But all will be revealed in the fullness of time.

I do know that I’ve been placed on a £50 weekly “allowance”, which, on the plus side, makes me eligible to flog the Big Issue.

If there was a soup kitchen nearby, I could frequent it.

In a local subway, one down-andout begged me for the price of a cuppa. During a brief conversation, the street person bemoaned the fact he received only £75 in benefits.

When I explained he was £25 richer than Yours Truly, the man apologised profusely and pressed 20p in my palm.

This week my allowance rose to a bumper £50.75p. I celebrated with a Finger of Fudge.

Julie’s allowance bombshell comes with the promise: “You can have more if you find £50 is not enough.”

It also comes with the insistence: “This is not an allowance. It is simply an amount of cash allocated to you on a weekly basis, to spend as you see fit. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

I found £50 was not enough. It had gone. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have any more because I couldn’t provide receipts for purchases made, specifically the Finger of Fudge and three packets of McCoy’s cheese and onion crisps. I’ve learned my lesson. Last week I bought a round while out with friends. I made them write down the drinks received and sign the chit. I had to visit two of them the following day because they failed to put a date on the expenses claim.They said the experience made them feel uncomfortable. They should come out for a restaurant meal with me – then I take pictures of their main course as evidence.

I feel the allowance system is divisive. I’m not going to take my wife out if it’s coming out of my £50. “That was a lovely meal – shame I’ve got to live on £3.50 until next Saturday.”

I never used to ask: “Am I paying for this meal or is it coming out of communal funds?”

If the answer’s the latter, I have a starter – and poppadoms. It does, however, make me a sure-fire winner should they resurrect game show Mr and Mrs.

Question: “It’s your anniversary. Would your husband:

A. Whisk you away for a romantic break?

B. Organise a surprise party? C. Just buy a card?” Answer: “C – he only gets £50 a week. And he’d give me the receipt.”

“You don’t have to pay for petrol,” pointed out my wife straight away, “and you can make sandwiches for work.

“That £50 is beer money – by my calculations, 17 pints worth.”

Fair point, but what am I supposed to do from Wednesday to Saturday?” With the spiralling cost of living, I’m marginally worse off than when I had paper and milk rounds in 1971, at the age of 13.

Then I squandered the cash on chocolate, accessories for my Subbuteo finger football game and

Brut aftershave, which I didn’t need. I didn’t shave. What a waste. I could’ve staggered up people’s drives flushed with 22 pints.

Some of the current belt tightening exercises have been extreme. Yesterday, I arrived home exhausted. “What on earth have you been doing?” asked my concerned wife. “You’re sweating profusely.”

I confessed I’d run behind a bus to save 75p on the fare home.

“You bloody idiot,” she scolded. “Next time, run behind a taxi – you’ll save a tenner.”

I just got kicked out of a secret cooking society for spilling the beans.