Rosie Millard: Thrifty Living

From the peaks of prosperity to the foothills of debt

all my statements have at long last turned up from the bank. Meaning that I can now see how much I've been fleeced for over the last six years. But, hello, what's this? For some reason, Clydesdale has only sent me two out of six years' worth. Still, I proceed through what's been mailed to me, with a marker pen, in order to assess, fascinated, quite how much I have been abused by that God-given-like force known as "administration fee".

After a few minutes, I realise that surveying my statements is a bit like charting a mountain range. Typically, they begin well enough, on the flat plain of normal overdraft land (say £5,000). Pretty soon, however, things start to speed up, move swiftly into the foothills of irreversible debt, and before you know it, you are in pioneering form, moving with crampons and rope as you scale the peaks of the £24,000 overdraft. At which point, all you have to look forward to is a blinding cascade of fees and fines from the bank. £35 for a rejected standing order. £25 for being over the overdraft limit. Once, I was charged two £35-ers, a £25 and a £100 administration fee. In one day. For something for which the actual cost has been estimated at around £2.50.

As evinced by my statements, at this juncture I clearly go into panic mode, and do something radical to plug the flow. Sell the car. Sell a child. Sell my body. A hasty payment of, say, £10,000 follows, which calms everything down for a few weeks.

Two months later, however, here we are, traversing the mountain range again, and as night follows day, back come the charges. During the last two years I have given away £1,385 to the Clydesdale bank – £1,600, if you count interest. Now all I have to do is try to claim it. Of course, I must first wait for the arrival of statements, years one to four, which, on current form, will probably take another three months. Then the Clydesdale will haggle, tell me it was all my fault and so we shall go on until, ooh, at least Hallowe'en.

What is interesting is that I have had so many faltering attempts to clean up my act. Lots of credit card debt repayment. Lots of carefully arranged accounts sending little bits and bobs going off to pay tax, VAT, or the nanny. The trouble is that when it all starts to go haywire, I throw in the metaphorical towel and charge off for £250 haircuts at Daniel Hersheson and £400 blow-outs at Selfridges. My statements are like a character analysis of an addict who is constantly trying to kick the habit, yet forever slipping back into her old ways and bingeing on 20 eclairs, or 200 Silk Cut.

"Still, look on the bright side," says thrift queen Laura. "At least you've paid off all your credit cards." Indeed. I have also secreted my only remaining piece of plastic in my desk. Pathetic, although not quite as sad as freezing it in a block of water, which is what Laura's latest financial self-help guide advises. She's brought it round to "inspire" me. How to get out of Debt, Stay out of Debt and Live Prosperously, by someone called Jerrold Mundis, is a perfect example of the personal finance guide; American, weirdly undersized, and full of crazy nuggets of impractical advice such as "reupholster rather than replace furniture." Yes, well Mr Mundis. A friend of mine is learning how to reupholster furniture and it has taken her two years of hard slog at the London Institute.

"Maybe I could increase my income," I suggest to Laura, who has come over to help me round up bric-a-brac for the school fete. "You know, sell this sort of junk to passers-by in an effort to raise funds for myself, rather than the school." Laura shakes her head. "Read what Jerrold says." I can't wait. I turn to a chapter entitled "Increasing Income". "An increase in income is not in itself a solution to debt," is what Mundis has to say. "Quite a few people can liberate themselves... simply by adhering to the guidelines already given." Laura raises an eyebrow. "Well, are you?" Sort of. I used an NCP car park the other day, rather than driving around in circles looking for a free parking space. Because it was tipping down. And I went and had a beach babes hour at Groom salon in Selfridges. Waxing, plucking, clipping. Yes, I am a masochist. "You are slipping," she says severely. "You must go to bed with Jerrold Mundis, and stay there until you understand him."