Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

Dan/Christa/Emily/the rest of the awful people from Hamilton Churchill was too high for me to be able to enjoy it any more anyway.
7. Champagne – nothing wrong with Prosecco. One bottle a week max.
8. Marks & Spencer’s food – from now on all shopping to be done weekly, on the Internet, from Tesco.
9. Decleor face cream – the stuff from Superdrug is probably just as good.
10. Nights out – must start having people round for dinner instead.
    Simple enough? Like hell. The thing you notice when you try to stop spending money is that the people who you usually give money to are extremely reluctant to let you stop giving them money. Theyplead and cajole, they coax and flatter, they seem to take everything so personally. It’s rather like breaking up with somebody.
    First off, Sky. I rang the customer service helpline and explained that I wished to cancel my subscription. Why did I want to discontinue Sky Plus? the man asked. Was it something they had done wrong? Was I aware of the advantageous features of Sky Plus? Was I aware that if I discontinued the service I would have to pay for a reconnection fee? That’s right, once you’ve left us you can’t just come waltzing back. Was there someone else? Was I being lured away to another provider? What exactly was that provider offering? They doubted very much that the other provider could offer the service that they did. No one could offer me the things that they had, no one would love me like they did. They seriously advised me to reconsider. Please, please stay. Eventually I told them that I had already cancelled the direct debit and hung up.
    Next up, the gym. Having spent what seemed like an hour on the phone with the TV people, I decided that I would do my next bout of breaking up in person. The fit, tanned and extremely attractive young man on the reception desk in Holmes Place looked at me, aghast, disbelieving. Obviously, no one had ever broken up with him before. Let’s face it, why would they?
    ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You want to cancel your membership?’
    I was sure. His expression changed, from disbelief todisappointment with just a hint of disapproval. He looked me up and down, his eyes resting just a moment too long on my waist, which he clearly regarded to be insufficiently slender.
    ‘Are you really sure you don’t want to carry on exercising?’ He didn’t actually call me a fat cow, but he may as well have done. Breaking up with people really does bring out the worst in them. With a histrionic sigh, the receptionist called over a colleague (petite, blonde, lycra-clad) to explain to me in great detail the benefits of regular exercise. Attractive receptionist guy listened attentively, every now and again looking pointedly at her rock-hard abs before returning his gaze to her tits.
    Excruciating, humiliating mission accomplished, I staggered home. There were no decent jobs to apply for, so I decided to make myself useful around the flat instead. I stripped the beds, collected towels and stuffed everything into the washing machine. Coming home to freshly laundered linens would put Jude in a good mood.
    I rang Shoreditch House with a heavy heart. I had such good memories of the place: sitting by the pool, drinking gin and tonics with Ali on hot July afternoons, dinner by the fireplace on the rooftop with Dan, chaotically drunken ten-pin-bowling sessions with the traders from Hamilton … it was one breakup I really wasn’t looking forward to.
    ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel my membership.’
    ‘What’s the membership number?’
    I gave it to him, steeling myself for the inevitable barrage of questions and attempts at persuasion.
    ‘Ms Cavanagh?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, that’s me.’
    ‘That’s fine then, from next month your membership is terminated.’ He hung up. Just like that! Just like that – it was like telling someone you wanted to end a relationship only for them to say, ‘Fine, great. I never liked you that much anyway.’
    I was still smarting from this rejection when I heard a loud and ominous rattling sound coming from the washing machine. There was a horrible grinding noise and a flashing red light appeared on the display. This did not look good. The grinding continued for a bit and then stopped. The light continued to flash. The machine fell silent. Oh, shit.
    At the bottom of the bookshelf in the living room I found a copy of the Yellow Pages. It was from 1998. Why did we have an eleven-year-old