It gets increasingly difficult to work out what to spend money on. Don’t you find? Cash has become so nutty and uncontrollable that it becomes hard to know, beyond the very essentials, what is all right (can we put the heating on, or do an extra wash, or order a takeaway?) and what is utterly obscene. Yesterday, I spent some time zooming in on food poverty campaigner Jack Monroe’s weekly meal planner, where every grain of salt and splash of oil is accounted for, marvelling at the energy and resilience it takes to stretch £20 that far, sickening at the injustice that forces it to exist. It sent me spinning, slightly, and questioning the week of purchases ahead. And then, considering a similar planner, but for treats.
What could I budget for? A modest cake? Yes on a Sunday, no on a Wednesday. A taxi? If all alternative options have been exhausted. Beyond cash, ethics arise. A new dress? Not if you care about the environment, Eva. A new book? Only if purchased from an independent supplier, fool. A treat for getting through the week, the month, the year? A little treat for continuing to perform as a person in the world, for waking up and getting dressed, and etching on a smile, and marching out into the street while coins and guilt fall from you like dandruff?
Where the cost of living crisis has helped me, I found, is that while many purchases remain confusing, I am able now to see very clearly the treats that are worth the extra cash at moments of abundance. I share my top three with you here, for free.
A week before my child’s birthday party, my glee builds as, online, I order the bouncy castle. This is number one. How much do you think a bouncy castle costs to rent? I had no idea: £1,000? £100? What price the feeling of perfect flight, cushioned on your descent by rubber walls, the illusion of grandeur? It’s £60. The perfect figure – any cheaper you’d worry about it potentially being made of something deathy or filled with a poisonous bouncy compound gas. Any more expensive it would feel decadent and outrageous, in a bad way. The men arrive and unroll it in the garden quite early in the morning, at a slightly walk-of-shamey hour when bouncy castles are not ordinarily seen. As soon as it’s plugged in, its turrets stand to attention, and within a minute the castle is fully inflated, yellow and magnificent, and slightly suffocating the herb patch, but fine.
The cat and baby are wary at first, quite rightly. A quivering structure has suddenly erected itself on the lawn and appears somehow to control the weather, and the lady is excited. I show them how to conquer it, clambering in as if wading into a British sea. First, the structural integrity must be tested, by throwing one’s bulk against the sides with a humble howl. Inside these three walls the air is less rough than the air outside, the rich smells of dust and rubber combining in this open chamber to create a unique ecosystem which enables childhood to return – £60! A whole day costs less than an hour of therapy and you get some ab work thrown in.
Number two, a magazine subscription, ideally focusing on interiors. Never mind that you and I are more likely to appear in print beside a real-life headline such as OOPS I CREMATED THE WRONG CAT or SEASONS CHEATINGS: I SAW MUMMY SHAGGING PANTY CLAUS or HOW I ALMOST SNAPPED IN HALF… TWICE! than have our home in one of these glossy dream sequences of a magazine, the joy comes not from decorating tips but from sneaking through strangers’ houses and judging their bedding. They will never know. They will never know you even exist, as you and I are both too common and beige to secure an invitation for a light supper at their kitchen island carved from an important marble.
There is freedom in this mediocrity, for it allows maximum scope of gaze. Lie in their oak bath. Scoff at the playroom, with its single wooden toy. Contemplate the post-coital conversations about grouting no doubt had in this worryingly tall bed, enjoy the flea market Picasso ceramics and the soft-water pool. One need never leave the house, go shopping, go to a museum, hell, have friends, when they have a magazine that offers you all this and smells divine, too.
Number three, splash out on the good painkillers. For years now I’ve been mugging myself off with a variety of arm rubs encased in chalk or plastic. Recently, I had a chat to myself, a really quite stern talking to, where we discussed my pain and what could be done, and then I took the slightly scary prescription pills and lo… I was whole again. If you’re not lucky enough to have a neurologist on call, I’ve dabbled in the past with over-the-counter painkillers, some of which were pleasingly effective, one of which I took wrong and made me hallucinate Marilyn Monroe climbing into bed with me. It wasn’t bad. What I’m saying is: don’t live in pain, just try and live.
In a time when corners must be cut so regularly that many of our days are now entirely spherical, I hope these additions will bring a little joy.
Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman
