Tag Archives: money

September 21, 2012 · 12:00 pm

I give all the good advice

Possibly my favourite thing is when people ask me for advice. It happened to me yesterday.

‘I am going to the IMAX cinema for the first time,’ My friend texted me. ‘I am terribly excited. What shall I wear?’ ‘It’s sauna rules,’ I quickly texted back. ‘Towel only’.

This, you will be surprised to hear,  is not even the best piece of advice I have ever given. At the risk of showing off, I will now share some of my pearls of wisdom:

1. ‘I can’t come,’ My friend said sadly. ‘I need to do some training, and I won’t have time to shower and change before dinner. I’m so sorry.’ ‘Do not panic,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Sweat is self-cleansing.

There is no need to shower. It’s like those people who follow Brad Pitt to Tibet and don’t wash their hair and then they come home and everyone’s so jealous because their hair is so clean. Despite no shampoo.‘

2. ‘I am so poor  this month I will be subsisting entirely off condiments,’ A former housemate told me. ‘Nonsense,’ I replied briskly. ‘You simply need to stop throwing your money away on things that you can easily get for free.’ My housemate looked at me, perplexed. ‘As in,’ I explained kindly. ‘There is absolutely no need to pay for ketchup, or salt, or napkins- all of which can be taken freely from MacDonalds.

Need a fork? Head to Waitrose- they have stacks of them by their salad aisle. Forgo expensive bottled water and instead, when out and thirsty, pop into the nearest pub. They’ll always give you a glass of tap water if you’re feeling a bit dry.’ If I remember correctly, my housemate was, in fact, so overwhelmed with this excellent advice, that she had to leave the room to contain herself.

3. Often people call me up, complaining about how tired they are. (It is possible I am the one calling them, and it’s 2.30am, but I can’t get bogged down in minor details). ‘There is no need to be tired,’ I explain cheerfully. ‘Whenever you feel tired, have a little nap. If you are in private, have a long sleep. Publicly, retire to the toilet and nap there for 20mins or so. You will notice that toilets have an inbuilt pillow in the toilet roll.

Impress upon your boss how keen you are to take advantage of every opportunity.

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June 19, 2012 · 9:09 am

Impeccably groomed

I was in New York a few days ago, and with impeccable financial insight, I decided to save myself some money by having a mani-pedi. (In London, I squander money frivolously by painting my own nails. If you would like to see me for wealth management advice, please feel free to do so). I dragged my friend along, mostly because I have a tendency to panic when faced with overwhelming amounts of colour.

(No, honestly. When I was asked what colour bridesmaid dress I wanted, aged 7, and told I could choose ‘any colour at all’ I plumped for black. Although my favourite colour was purple, but I was so panicked I forgot there were any other colours apart from black and white. And the bride did not seem particularly happy when I initially choose white).

We went to a nail salon recommended by my NY-based friend, who promised that they would be ‘nice’ (my question) and ‘cheap’ (my other friend’s question). Here are the things I have learnt about mani-pedis:

1. They do not like it if you read a magazine whilst they paint your nails. Not even if you only turn the pages with the hand they have already painted, and therefore is flapping about free as a bird.

2. They do not like it if, when they are exfoliating your heels, you find it so ticklish that you kick out, and splash water on them. (They put your feet into the world’s smallest paddling pools. They also do not like it if you have a quick paddle about in them).

3. They do not like it if you change your mind about what nail varnish colour you want more than 3 times. Apparently, it is not a ‘try before you buy’ sort of deal.

4. They do not like it if, whilst making small talk, you ask for a detailed description of the ugliest feet they have ever worked with.

5. They do like it if you tip. But they do not like it, if once you have tipped, you attempt to ‘make your money back’ by taking all the free mints.

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May 15, 2012 · 9:19 am

How I fooled everyone

I’d like to talk about money.

Money is something that, until recently, I knew very little about. I still don’t have any money, personally, but I know lots of people who do. One of these people is my Mother. She invited me to a fundraising dinner. ‘It’s £90 a head,’ She emailed me. ‘Would you like to come?’ I wondered what to do. ‘Um,’ I emailed back. ‘It depends…’ (A normal person would now have put me out of my misery, and explained if I was to pay the £90 or they were. My Mother is not a normal person). ‘It depends on what?’ My Mother emailed back cheerfully.

It turns out she was paying, so I went. ‘It starts at 6.30pm,’ My Mother told me the day before the dinner. ‘I can’t get there til 8.30pm,’ I explained. ‘No problem at all,’ My Mother insisted. ‘You are on a table of young professionals. No-one will be there before 9pm.’ My Mother has very odd views of young professionals, the oddest being that I am one of them, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue, so I set about preparing to walk into a dinner 2 hours late.

I knew, what with my unacceptable lateness, that it was important that I made a good first impression. So as I sat down to my (full) table, I stuck my hand out to the chap to my left, and introduced myself. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m Lucy. I hope you haven’t eaten my food.’ Things were going swimmingly. I’m not a young professional, so I let the others talk about their careers and rents and aspirations while I got on with my own job- getting as much for my (Mother’s) money as possible.

I ate my own food, asked the lady next to me if I could have her leftovers, and convinced the waitress to shovel the rest of the shared dish onto my plate before she cleared.

I asked the chap next to me if I could borrow a pen, and didn’t return it. I collected all the young professionals’ business cards- business cards are the perfect size for flashing pithy little insults at people when they are on the phone. (You write the insult on the white bit at the back of the card, obviously).

I feel that I am now in a much better position to talk about money. You can tell who has money by how they act at a fancy fundraising dinner. I’m pretty sure I fooled everyone. After all, the rich didn’t become rich by not getting their money’s worth, did they?

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May 4, 2012 · 9:47 am

Ask Jeeves

I was awake at 6am last Sunday. I didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t even really want to be alive. I lay in the dark, wondering what I had done to deserve such punishment. ‘All I want,’ I thought to myself feebly. ‘Is someone to bring me a glass of water and a cold flannel.’ I wondered who would be kind enough to help me. ‘No-one would be kind enough to help me,’ I moaned to myself pitifully. ‘But I would give someone every penny I had for a cold flannel on my aching head.’ Which is when I finally realised. ‘All I need,’ I whispered softly into the silence. ‘Is a butler.’

I would like to take this opportunity to advertise for a butler.

This is a very good job. Your day will begin at 9am (but you only need to be awake, and certainly not dressed or coherent. I am an equal opportunities employer). It would be nice if you brought me some breakfast, but any food you can locate will suffice. The rest of the day will vary, but most of the time, you will be treated to lightness and whimsy, as I try out new comedic material on you.

(Some of this will be offensive, and it will be part of your job to tell me which parts are. Ironically, this will not offend me in the slightest). In the evening, I will cook. If I go out for dinner, I will leave you some money so you can order a take-away. (I do not want a skinny butler. I do not trust them).

Your only real responsibilities begin at bedtime. During the night, I have a habit of kicking off my sheet, duvet and pillows. I would like you to retrieve these for me. But not in a scary way. Try to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. No-one wants to wake up with someone leering over them holding a pillow.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I would like you to pop into my room from 6am onwards with a cold flannel and a promise that ‘this too shall pass’. There is no need to do anything else on the weekend- I’ll scarcely remember you exist.

At present, this is an unpaid position. However, with such an excellent method of overcoming my hangovers, I imagine my productivity will soar. I would not be at all surprised if a few weeks down the line you are earning in excess of £14 a week. Obviously, as this point I will stop leaving you money for take-aways.

 

 

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April 25, 2012 · 11:36 am

My new haircut

My Father took pity on me, and gave me some shekels for a haircut.

He has been reminding me daily to get this haircut. Which would be helpful, except I’ve already had it. The first time he reminded me to get it, I smiled modestly and promised that I would. The second time, I nodded my agreement firmly. The third time, I started wearing a cap.

I’m not quite sure what to do about this. I’m certain that my hair never looks better, no matter how dreadful the cut, than in the few hours after I leave the hairdressers. And those hours are long gone. ‘Just say something,’ Perhaps some of you will be urging me. Some of you are idiots. My Father, unsurprisingly, is a man. If I have had a haircut that he cannot even notice, he will certainly not think that was money well spent. (Bear in mind, this is a man who, when he found out I was popping off to see my beautician, asked why he did not get to come. ‘It seems rather unfair,’ He pointed out. ‘You are more than welcome to have a bikini wax,’ I told him).

But back to the hair on my head. I’ve peered at myself in the mirror, and it certainly looks cut to me. But perhaps I’ve become one of those self-deluding women who stare at themselves in the changing room mirror and say, ‘You know, I think I’ve lost weight’ while their flab flobbles over the top of their new jeans.

I just popped downstairs to see my Father, and spent much of our conversation flicking my hair like Farrah Fawcett having an epileptic fit. No use. Perhaps I’ll have to go have it cut again. It really seems like the most economically sensible thing to do.

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September 29, 2011 · 11:21 am

In which I am disappointed

I get a call from a withheld number. I am terribly excited. I think about all the people who might be calling me secretly. ‘Hello?’ I say politely. ‘Hello. This is HSBC.’ I refuse to abandon my earlier hopes. Perhaps HSBC is calling to let me know that they have randomly selected me to win a great deal of money, in a 2011 version of Charlie’s golden ticket.

I instantly upgrade my planned sandwich. Today will be a ‘finest’ day, let me tell you that for free. (I’m sorry, but I think that’s all I’m going to give away for free. Us rich have to stay rich). I wonder if I should throw caution to the wind and pop to Marks and Spencer. And let me tell you, I will not be following the ‘meal deal’. No siree, I will profligately pile things I actually want to eat into my basket. I might buy two puddings. ‘Hello, are you there?’ the HSBC man asks. It seems I have not said anything for some time. I don’t want to make the HSBC man jealous of my newfound lunch possibilities, so I keep my recent thoughts to myself. ‘You have an account with HSBC,’ he tells me. ‘That’s good!’ I say cheerily, ‘Got to be in it to win it!’ ‘Um, yes. The problem is, you haven’t put any money into the account since 2010.’ ‘Well,’ I say gleefully, ‘I’m guessing that won’t be a problem any more!’ ‘Um. No, it is.’ I presume the HSBC man has been watching too many game shows, and is trying to increase tension by pretending I haven’t won. I play along. ‘Oh, really?’ I say. ‘Would it be possible to transfer some money into this account today?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ I say cunningly. ‘I suppose that depends on what happens today.’ ‘Um, it is important that you transfer money into this account as soon as possible.’ ‘I see,’ I say, playing along. ‘As soon as possible. Yes, I understand.’ I imagine HSBC are going to do an instant bank transfer. This is great, because I am pretty wed to the idea of my enormously expensive lunch.

‘Are you there?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Of course!’ ‘So, do you have another account you could transfer funds from today?’ ‘Seriously?’ I ask. The HSBC man is silent. Perhaps I have misread this situation. I see my lunch reduced to the Boots Meal Deal as we speak. ‘Is that your final answer?’ I ask the HSBC man, just to check. ‘Um, yes,’ the HSBC man replies, baffled. ‘Please transfer money today.’ ‘OK,’ I say grumpily, ‘but let me tell you this- Marks and Spencer are very disappointed.’ ‘Do you have an account with Marks and Spencer?’ the HSBC man asks eagerly. ‘Not any more,’  I reply. ‘I think you know why not.’ There is a pause, while the HSBC man considers his actions. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to confirm we’ve received the transfer,’ the HSBC man says finally. ‘And I’ll call if I receive the golden ticket,’ I tell him crossly. ‘I’m sorry?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Oh, nothing,‘ I reply. ‘Excuse me, I think I have another call. Maybe this one will be Willy Wonka. I hope HSBC have learnt not to raise people’s hopes with their deceiving withheld numbers.’ I presume from the HSBC man’s silence that he is suitably chastened. Let me tell you, I will not be picking up when I see his number flashing across my phone. Oh, wait…

 

 

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