The Screenwriters’ Festival wiped out my disposable income for July, and it finished on the third. I came home from Cheltenham with £30 in my pocket, and haven’t withdrawn a penny or made a debit card transaction since. My bank manager called mid-month to check I was still alive.
I owe my survival to three things – a well stocked freezer; a big box of liquid laundry sachets, left over from when I converted back to powder (better for the machine); and £50 worth of hoarded coppers and unspent Euros I scraped together. Without any of these I would have died, starving, in dirty, ragged linen. Leaving an unkempt corpse is a terrible fear.
Have I learnt anything from this experience? I can live on very little, and it’s certainly encouraging to know that. I’m probably going to be a lot more thrifty from now on, so that this never happens again, and I know I won’t be spending money on anything unless I need it, or really, really want it. But it would have to be something outrageously special. Like a submarine.