But, y’know, DON’T panic, cos I’m s’posed to be taking it easy and looking after myself, innit, and I guess panicking would feel farking rubbish so I probably shouldn’t. Panic, that is.
Only, I am a bit. Y’see, I need to fill out some forms of an enquiring nature which will allow me to claim some money from the government.
It kind of goes like this: Dear Government, I’ve got no money, and no way to earn any cos I care for my baby full-time, and I can’t afford childcare AND food/rent/bills/gin at the same time, so please can you give me some money, if I ask very nicely and smile beguilingly at you? Pretty please?
And the government replies: Fill in this thousand-page form and we might give you £71 a week.
The form wants to know everything. Which is fair enough. It can know my bra size if it likes. It doesn’t need to know my bra size, but I might write it on there anyway. Might help my claim. Or I could send a photo of my extraordinary arse straight to David Cameron and somehow, that could speed everything up and ensure me a comfortable share of the Tory gold pot. It really is an extraordinary arse.
Unfortunately, the sort of thing the form wants to know is how much money I already have, and how much I have coming in. Right. So, none, then. And very little, then. Savings? Nope. Have never earned enough to save any. Pensions? Uh, no, nor that either, though my plan is to to just keel over when I’m 60 and save everyone the fuss. Other benefits? Yes, the child benefit, which is a princely sum of 43p a week, or something. So how do you live…? Well, I used to have money coming in, and now I don’t. Simple. Please just HELP me, O benevolent government of ours! I throw myself upon your mercy! I prostrate myself at your righteous feet! I – oh, I haven’t got a hope in hell, have I?
Anyway, instead of panicking, as my subconscious is no doubt doing quietly within my head-space right now, I’ve come up with some ideas which will no doubt come to fruition and save my arse, and ensure Moo doesn’t exist solely on dust.
Idea number one: we start to eat dust. And build a house of dust, which we can live in. Dust is cheap and ubiquitous.
Idea number two: the government helps me find a rich, definitely close-to-death old man that I can marry, who will sign everything over to me, and then just die. There must be loads in hospitals. It’ll free up beds, and enforce this whole ‘Family is Great!’ thing they’ve got going on right now. Sorted.
Idea number three: on Twitter, I have 2,093 followers. Every follower gives me a pound. One pound. That means I get *counts on fingers* 2,093 pounds. That’s more than enough for next month’s rent, and bills, and food, with some left over to buy some yoghurt raisins for the unicorn, and pay for my train fare to BritMums Live. Woop! And if I’m covered for next month, it gives me time to build my house of dust, right? There was this woman in America who did something similar YEARS ago, only she asked EVERYONE IN THE WORLD for a dollar so she could pay off her credit card debt cos she splurged on fancy shoes or something. I read a book about it. She was a farking genius. Sure, she got loads of abuse and questioned her self-worth, but it bloody worked. She totally paid off her credit cards using the money people gave her. Farking GENIUS.
Erm, that’s it. I’m out of ideas. I’m well aware I probably have other options but my
panicked perfectly calm brain is wheeling at a hundred miles an hour. I need an income. I need affordable childcare for Moo. I need, most urgently, rent for next month. Oh and I need a farking haircut. Bastard non-self-regulating hair.
Money troubles aren’t new. Y’all are used to them. So short of eating dust, what thrifty miftiness can you offer me? I’m not a huge spender but I probably need to adapt my ways. Is saving your toenails to sprinkle on toast for a crunchy topping OK? No? Damn.