Money, money, money… Life in a suddenly broke woman’s world
I MEAN, IT’S not looking great from an economic perspective, is it? Latest figures from the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) show that the UK is the hardest hit among major economies by the crisis. Between April and June our economy shrunk by 20.4%, compared to an average of 9.8% in the 37 nations the OECD surveys. Applications for Universal Credit are at a record high, so is reliance on food banks. Jobs are scarce. I spoke to a mate who works in human resources in tech – one of the few sectors not suffering – and she told me her company just advertised a position for which they’d normally expect 50 applicants, max – and had 1,000 in a day. Pret’s in trouble. BA’S decimated. My beloved high street is on its knees. I walk past permanently shuttered shops and pubs, and I want to cry.
Those of us still employed are scared sh**less that we won’t be for much longer. Anyone who’s anyone is worrying about money. I am. Covid wiped out 40% of my regular income – leaving me in the (don’t get me wrong: incredibly fortunate) position of still being able to pay my bills. Just: not a lot else. And yeah. Really. I know this makes me lucky. I am still earning; plus, the former relative health of my finances means I’m not in a lot of debt. Still: life with a lot less money than before takes some getting used to. It’s an adjustment. From years and years of jolly amounts of money, fun money, f**k it all! Let’s go out for dinner twice in a week and not think about it money… To scrape-the-mould-offthe-cheese, allow literally anyone else to pay for the coffee, lose sleep over what’ll happen next money.
Because (when I forget to feel lucky) I do feel scared. Scared of – maybe, if things get worse… (Oh God! Might things get worse?) – not being a journalist any more. Not doing the thing that makes me happiest in all the world. Who would I be, if not a journalist? I’ve no idea.
But self-pity is impotent, deeply inappropriate in my case, and (more importantly) unsexy, plus, honestly? I haven’t got time for it. Gotta work, innit. Gotta turn a buck. Also? Having less money isn’t without benefits. It sharpens a gal up. Brings out her hustle, her shark. Renders the background whining of her puffy-up ego – the stressing over imagined Twitter slights, over awards I ‘should’ have won, nemeses I should have beaten down – irrelevant. Allows me to say the word ‘parsimonious’, more. Focuses the money
I do spend – when you’ve got a lot less all of a sudden, bloody hell! You make sure you spend it good. And it makes me unbelievably grateful to be writing, still. There is new – extraordinary – pleasure for me, in Every. Word. I. Type.
New gratitude, too, that you would want to read it. Thank you for that.