To say I’ve never found the idea of “cutting back” particularly appealing
would be something of an understatement. I am naturally extravagant; I am
also naturally spectacularly useless with money. It’s an unhappy combination
that has, for two decades, resulted in complete dependency on my overdraft
facility and on assorted loans, and in long periods of a panic-denial-panic
cycle. Let’s just say I’ve come across my fair share of bailiffs over the
years. (One year they appeared on December 23, which was nice. I was out
shopping.)
In 2007, before I decided that I really needed to get a grip once and for all,
I was served with bankruptcy papers — not for the first time. I had two
books in the top 10 bestseller charts at the time. It’s not that I can’t
earn money, or that I don’t earn enough of it. It’s a complete inability to
manage money, full stop — and, to be frank, an inborn lack of interest in
doing so. I think I subconsciously saw my financial idiocy as a sign of a
rather charmingly bohemian easy-come, easy-go approach to life in general. I
know: it’s pathetic. (It’s perhaps no coincidence that my father died a
double bankrupt and that my mother’s attitude to money is quite breezy.)
I share this rather intimate information to pre-empt the obvious accusation
about my writing this book: ie that it’s all very well for a well-paid,
relatively successful middle-class person who lives in a lovely house in a
lovely corner of London to write about thrift — pull the other one, Marie
Antoinette, it’s got a Sèvres cowbell on.
But, actually, my investigations into — and eventual embracing of — thrift
have their roots in necessity. It dawned on me that nothing was going to
improve unless I made fundamental changes to my spending habits. You may not
have been served with sinister legal papers or become blasé about bailiffs,
but it’s a rare bird these days that doesn’t feel a little belt-tightening
might be in order, what with recession, the credit crunch, the rise in the
cost of living.
My new-found love of thrift also has its roots in a strange and unfamiliar
feeling that has been creeping up on me over the past few years. I am a
child of the 1980s: I believe in consumption, conspicuous or furtive. I love
shopping so much that I wrote a book about it. I have no guilt about the
number of bags I own. Many of my generation despised “hippies”, and, by
extension, “hippieish” habits such as recycling or knitting your own socks.
But, hippie contempt aside, as the years passed even I succumbed to
imperceptible greening. I started finding myself peculiarly irritated at the
amount of plastic used in supermarket packaging. And because I read all the
papers every day for my job, then I thought that it was really pretty
shameful to be shoving said papers, several trees’ worth, into a bin liner
every week. Little by little, I became greener. We’re talking eau de nil, or
chartreuse on a good day, rather than darkest forest green, but there was a
perceptible shift in my attitudes. Today, I can’t imagine not recycling —
it’s just what you do; and I can’t imagine merrily chucking away perfectly
good food either. Or being mean about hippies.
At the same time as all of this, I began to find my own conspicuous
consumption slightly nauseating. Not all the time, obviously: I understand,
and dearly love, the thrilling kick of pure pleasure that comes from buying
a lovely dress, or indeed a lovely holiday, and I’m not into
self-flagellation (or wearing hideous clothes, no matter how worthy). But
there was, it slowly dawned on me, something gross about wanting something
and buying it, just like that — thank you, Amex, and sod the consequences.
Now, I know that I am extremely fortunate to be able to have done this at all.
And I know I sound spoilt, but I’m trying to be honest. Five years ago,
buying stuff I didn’t need was my idea of bliss. But these days my treat of
choice comes from a yarn shop in north London, not from the Chloé concession
in Selfridges, and if I want to give someone I really care about a present,
I may actually — gasp! — make them something. And here’s the clincher: I
would consider the something as chic and stylish as anything a department
store could have produced. Chicer, sometimes.
One of my favourite recent birthday presents was a beautifully knitted Lurex
scarf. The friend who knitted it for me had some little Cash’s name tapes
made that said, “Made for you with love by Alison” in red curly writing. The
woman’s a lawyer; she doesn’t have much spare time. She could have gone
anywhere and spent any amount on my present, but it wouldn’t have made me
feel a fraction as delighted. So: feeling poorer, feeling greener, minding
more, realising that you don’t have to be a professional to be able to make
things with your hands and that making things with your hands is
unexpectedly and wonderfully rewarding.
And the next surprise, no less important, is the sense, long lost and now
regained, that I am doing my bit. I understand that my bit is very small and
that, globally, one first-world person’s idea of thrift is another
third-world person’s idea of unimaginable, obscene luxury. But we all do
what we can and it’s got to be better than doing nothing at all. I’ll never
be a full-on eco-warrior, or become a fan of those hideous light bulbs we’re
all supposed to switch to even though they make everything look disgustingly
ugly, and I’ll always choose indulgence over sanctity. This is not a guide
called How to Be Green, or How to Be Good. If you want to read about the
kind of thrift that involves saving rubber bands and turning them into balls
to give your children for Christmas, this is not the right book for you.
It’s not about cheeseparing. But if you’re interested in living well and
stylishly, in valuing beauty, in saving money in unexpectedly satisfying
ways and in feeling like a useful member of the human race at the same time
as enhancing your life in dozens of little but significantly pleasing ways,
read on. You have nothing to lose but your overdraft — and nothing to gain
but a fresh look at the true value of things, yourself included. Being
thrifty makes you feel good about yourself, and you can’t put a price on
that.
SENSIBLE SUPERMARKET SHOPPING
Shop locally, daily, buying only precisely what you need A bag of pasta, say,
and some overripe tomatoes going cheap at the grocer’s. Add an onion, olive
oil and some basil from your windowsill and you have supper for four for
about 50p a head. This works extremely well on the thriftiness front, but I
do see it can also be completely and irritatingly unpractical for most
people who work. In which case . . .
Shop online This discourages that slightly dazed aisle-browsing most of us do
— “Oh, a new delicious-looking product. I’ll just stick some in my trolley,
even though I have no idea when we’ll eat it, or what with.”
Better still, shop online from a properly compiled list What I now do is sit
down with my recipe books and plan what I’m going to be cooking that week —
yes, I know, I am a good little housewife. Not only does this save you a
fortune — no impulse buys, nothing unnecessary, nothing that’s going to sit
there quietly going past its sell-by date — but it stops you buying snacky
things that make you fat.
If you find yourself naturally resistant to the idea of buying discounted food
because you’re middle class, get over it It was £5 30 seconds ago and now
it’s £2.50. It’s exactly the same food. Snap it up.
All supermarkets put the most expensive stuff at eye-level Look up or down for
the perfectly respectable, cheaper options.
Stop shopping at the “posh” supermarkets I’ve shaved a
fortune off my monthly food bill by frequenting my local non-posh
supermarkets, which I’d previously discounted on the snobby basis that they
felt like shopping in Albania in 1971 — semi-bare shelves, hideous lighting.
The excellent mysupermarket.co.uk works like an ordinary online supermarket
You fill your trolley with stuff, but, brilliantly, it then works out
whether you’d be better off shopping at Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Ocado (Waitrose)
or Asda, based on what you’re buying. The differences can be startling.
FEEDING YOUR FAMILY
I recommend two wonderful books. The first is a brilliant little volume by
Gill Holcombe, a mother of three, called (deep breath) How to Feed Your
Whole Family a Healthy, Balanced Diet with Very Little Money and Hardly Any
Time, Even If You Have a Tiny Kitchen, Only Three Saucepans (One with an
Ill-fitting Lid) and No Fancy Gadgets — Unless You Count the Garlic Crusher
. . . It costs £9.99 and is published by Spring Hill. The hearty, honest,
family-friendly recipes are delicious, and she means it about “very little
money” — the weekly meal-planners at the back of the book include shopping
lists with costings (for 2007) and average out at about £30 a week for a
family of four (and she only uses organic meat. QED).
The second book is, maddeningly, £25, but to be fair is practically
encyclopedia-sized. Called The Kitchen Revolution (Ebury Press), its premise
is to return to the days of good housekeeping, save money, time and effort,
and put an end to waste. Using its weekly shopping lists (averaging £50-£60
for a family of four, and which, brilliantly, you can download online, print
and take to the shops), you can make one big meal from scratch, one to
freeze, two meals using leftovers, one cheap seasonal supper, one meal from
your larder and one pudding.
DINNER PARTIES
A surprising number of people still feel a “dinner party” is preferable to a
kitchen supper and requires, to be successful, linen napkins, stiff little
flower arrangements and expensive ingredients, to say nothing of giant
amounts of effort. Actually, what it requires is excellent company, the kind
of friendly food everyone likes, and copious amounts of wine and water —
tap, please: it’s free and it tastes good. Bottled water has had its day, in
terms of both the money it costs and the plastic it uses.
So the first thing to do is to relax and stop approaching it as though it were
a military campaign or a personality test that would reveal deep secrets
about you, one of which being that you’re cheap. Nobody cares, or if they
do, you need to get yourself some new friends.
CHRISTMAS
I am obsessed with Christmas but I was still paying for it in June. This is
what I now do to save time and money:
If there is a large number of you Agree with each other only to give presents
to the children. If that’s an unbearable prospect (I feel your pain), agree
on a set budget — £5, £10, £20 — per present per head, and make it clear
that busting the budget is not an option.
Make everyone bring something, matching your request to their income Last year
I efficiently sent everyone an e-mail making them responsible for one aspect
of Christmas Day: flowers, candles, napkins (after years of kitchen roll),
brandy butter.
Start shopping early, like six months ahead And do as much of it as possible
online. It cuts down on stress levels and spreads the cost.
If you’ve left everything late and feel panicky, head to Argos It opens early,
closes late and has extremely competitive prices, and it is possible to find
pretty much something for everyone there.
Make as many presents as possible Don’t start doing this on December 20. I try
to make little things throughout the year, and keep them in my present
drawer.
Get the children to make presents too Nobody doesn’t like a giant beribboned
box of home-made fudge. More edible present ideas here: www.wondertime.go.com/life-at-home/article/mommys-little-helpers.html
. Teenagers often make brilliant music-compilation CDs — an excellent gift
for the middle-aged kidult.
Use recycled wrapping paper I also love brown paper with coloured string, and
newspaper with beautiful ribbon (from the haberdasher’s), all at a fraction
of the price of ordinary wrapping paper. Use whatever you have to hand: old
calendars (nicely seasonal), old maps, the horoscope page (pick a good one).
CRAFT WORKS
If you’re under 30 and fairly with it, you’ll understand what I’m talking
about when I say the craft movement is huge and super-cool.
I could write an entire book about all of this, and about what it means for so
many young women to be redefining domesticity in such empowering,
self-sufficient ways. For our current purposes, though, all you need to know
is that there’s never been a better time to get into crafting. Make craftster.org
your first port of call. The site contains everything about everything to do
with crafts, as well as being a giant online community.
Then move on to etsy.com. It’s like a huge
crafts mall, containing tens of thousands of individual stalls run by people
selling the stuff they make. It sells absolutely everything you could
possibly imagine: handmade clothes, accessories, jewellery, bath goods,
wedding- cake figurines, frames, ceramics, knitted stuff, art (some of it
fantastic), toys — and that is the merest tip of the world’s biggest
iceberg. It’s marvellous and I can’t recommend it highly enough.
Etsy is the first site I visit if I want to buy someone an original (as in,
often, literally one of a kind), lovely, bargainous present. Plus,
obviously, you’re not lining the pockets of some giant greedy-guts
corporation; you’re (gently) lining the pockets of a fashion student in
Brooklyn, or a mother of four from Dorset who crafts in her spare time.
Every item you buy from such a person strikes a blow against mass
production. Everything about Etsy rocks.
If you are any good at making anything at all, I strongly urge you to set
yourself up with an Etsy boutique; as some of the craft bloggers who have
Etsy shops will tell you, you can start earning serious pocket money — after
which, of course, the sky’s the limit.
EMOTIONAL THRIFT
I believe that part of the reason so many of us feel obscurely dissatisfied in
some way is to do with our strange, deluded (and very unthrifty)
expectations. I also believe that these are a direct consequence of two
things: a) celebrity culture, in which everyone always seems beautiful,
rich, happy and fulfilled, and we, by comparison, seem plain, poor, beset
with small miseries and chronically unfulfilled/frustrated; and b) the
sneaky influence, and legacy, of all those thousands of self-help books,
which have now been around for a couple of decades, and which all contain
the same message: you’re super-special and deserve everything, and if you’re
not getting it, it’s because you’re a victim.
Point a) is easily dismissed: it’s called PR and I sincerely hope that the
lovely readers of this publication have enough gumption to see the smoke and
mirrors for what they are. (It’s also called airbrushing, and sometimes
eating disorder, and often drug habit.)
Point b) is more prevalent and more damaging. You don’t even have to have read
the self-help books for their message to have trickled through, as though by
osmosis. We’re all fluent in psychobabble and we all love to emote — both of
which aptitudes would have our grandparents spinning in their graves. We
seem to have lost any idea of the merits of self-control or even piping down
occasionally.
This isn’t (quite) a plea for all of our human transactions to have a
tragically repressed Brief Encounter vibe about them. But it is a plea for a
return to a stiffening of upper lips. We’re all damaged to some extent, and
we all carry around our emotional burdens. They’re not that interesting. I
liked it better when the answer to “How are you?” was inevitably “Fine,
thank you”, even if the person in question only had moments to live.
Instead, what you now often get in response to your polite inquiry is a
detailed catalogue of grievances and perceived injuries. But being free with
personal information in this way doesn’t make you an “open” or “emotionally
in tune” person. It just makes you sound really needy, like you’re the only
thing that matters.
Going on and on about yourself, or about a thing that has happened to you, is
incredibly bad manners — it makes any conversational exchange about you and
you only. I wish people would desist — not just because it would make me
happy, but because I genuinely think it would make them happier too. If you
are what you eat, you are also what you think, and if what you think out
loud is relentlessly self-centred and negative, it kind of follows that
you’re unlikely to be especially chipper.
What you need to do with a bad thing is get over it. Your boyfriend has dumped
you: it’s very sad, but there you go. It doesn’t get any less sad if you
discuss it solidly for three weeks (or three months) and turn every single
conversation round to the subject of your deep and unique unhappiness. Be
adult: shoulder your burden, process it and move on. We’d all like to marry
incredibly studly millionaires with PhDs and well-developed social
consciences, but I suspect they’re probably a bit thin on the ground. We’d
all like to be promoted into the stratosphere, but it’s unlikely to happen
if we insist on leaving at 5.30pm on the dot and are intent on our “right”
to every single holiday. And anyway, sometimes what you have under your nose
is exactly right for you, even if it (or he) doesn’t quite match the fantasy
version.
It seems to me that too many of us believe so much in fantasies that we waste
all the goodness of what is real and tangible. Appreciate what you’ve got,
even the really small things. For me, those are often domestic. Everyday
happiness, as opposed to one-off great bursts of pure ecstasy, is
intricately tied in with tiny everyday events: the jaunty-looking teapot
that pours without dribbling, the children’s bath time, an especially good
book. These things aren’t sexy or envy-making, but they are the fabric of
all our days. Concentrating on them, and on all the small joys they provide,
can be intensely fulfilling. Moaning because you can’t afford a £300 pair of
shoes is not. Neither is moaning tout court.
Be happy. We are all blessed, in thousands of different ways. So we’re not a
size 6, cavorting on a yacht with George Clooney. So what? I’d rather be
sniffing my babies’ heads. There is enormous beauty in everyday life, and it
doesn’t cost any money to look at it and feel glad to be alive.
CLOTHES
I hate cheap clothes. Well, no, that’s not entirely true.
There are some cheap clothes I absolutely love, and I know for a fact that it
is entirely possible to look like a million dollars on about 30 quid if
you’re judicious. But I hate the high-street stores that sell very cheap
clothes, and the very cheap clothes they sell.
How do we think it became possible for a new dress to cost £6? If the finished
garment, including the store’s mark-up, costs £6, what do we think the
person who made it was paid? What kind of conditions do we imagine they were
working under? And how old do we think they were? Now, I like clothes and I
like a bargain. But really, who could wear these clothes and feel good about
it? (Answer: millions of people. I find this insanely depressing. And they
still look awful.)
The following stores have all explicitly stated their opposition to child
labour: Marks & Spencer, American Apparel, H&M, Arcadia Group
(includes Topshop, Burton, Miss Selfridge, Wallis, Dorothy Perkins), Gap,
Adili.com and People Tree.
What I would say, counter-intuitively (yes, I know, it’s supposed to be a book
about thrift), is: when it comes to clothes, always buy the best you can
afford. Spend as much money as you are able to, only don’t do it very often
— like, once or twice a year, not every Saturday. One fantastically cut,
top-quality coat will last you upwards of 10 years.
A classic little black dress can last decades — and will be nicked by your
daughter and fought over by your female grandchildren. A cashmere jumper is
chic, warm, durable and beyond fashion. Good underwear can shave off 10lb,
which I call entirely quidsworth (check old-lady-style underwear shops for
old-fashioned girdles — much cheaper than miracle pants and just as
effective. Also, they can be curiously sexy, in a reinforced-nylon-gusset
kind of way). Spend as much as you can on classic pieces. And: look after
your clothes. This sounds obvious, but it’s a lost art. Even good-quality
clothes need a little help.
Here’s what I think: dry-cleaning is mostly a myth, and an exorbitant myth at
that. Clothing manufacturers have to protect themselves against shrinkage,
which is why they stick “dry clean” labels in everything, willy-nilly, but
the truth of the matter is, you can wash nearly everything by hand.
I was sceptical about this when I was first told, by a friend with a dazzling
wardrobe and a serious thrifty streak, but it turns out to be true. Here’s
the information: anything that has a label saying “dry clean” can be washed
by hand. Anything that has a label saying “dry clean ONLY” can probably
still be washed by hand, but approach with caution (see ktcampbell.com/domesticity/hand_wash.html).
The easy method and the one to use on anything you’re especially anxious
about: go to the brilliant Lakeland (lakeland.co.uk), and spend £8.99 on
their Hagerty Dry Cleaner Kit. This marvel will turn your tumble dryer into
a dry-cleaning machine (which is really what a professional dry-cleaning
machine is — a huge dryer plus some chemicals) and clean up to 16 items. Use
without fear — it’s brilliant and it works, even on big things such as
coats, for 56p a pop.
HOW TO BUY BARGAINS FROM THE USA
Many US online stores don’t ship outside North America. So you’re stymied.
Except, not. This is what you do: go to myus.com and get an account (not
free, but worth it). What this company does is provide you with an American
address, which you use when buying from US websites. They then forward your
purchases to your UK address, whether they’re clothes, books, rugs or
furniture. Dead simple and dead ingenious, especially as there are
incredible bargains to be had from US online shops. 1
Beauty on a budget
* You are going to thank me for this. It’s the aspirin mask, which I
discovered on makeupalley.com. Aspirin contains a beta hydroxy acid, the
main component of expensive designer exfoliators/creams. Cost of said
products: upwards of £40. Cost of aspirin mask: pence. Get six plain,
uncoated aspirins. Crush them with the back of a spoon. Mix with water to
make a paste. Put the paste on your face. Leave it for 10 minutes. Rinse
off, massaging to exfoliate as you go. For God’s sake, keep your mouth and
eyes shut. Pat face dry. Open eyes. Look! Your skin looks about a million
times better. Use once a week, twice in an emergency.
* Mineral foundations have changed my life. They’re made of ground-up
minerals and pigments, specifically oxides of titanium and zinc, both of
which occur naturally. There’s nothing dubious in these products at all — no
waxes, oils, chemicals, artificial colours or preservatives. Bare Escentuals
claim that you can sleep in theirs. Mineral foundation gives you almost
airbrushed-looking skin and covers every bump and shadow. It stays on all
day, even if it’s boiling hot. It doesn’t look or feel like you have
anything on. And my favourite brand, the stupidly named Lily Lolo, is so
cheap it’s almost a joke: a little £12 jar will last months.
Extracted and adapted from The Thrift Book: Live Well and Spend Less by
India Knight, published by Fig Tree (Penguin) on Thursday at £14.99. Buy it
for £13.49 (inc p&p) through The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870
165 8585 or at timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst
