Show me the money!

Money is not a topic considered 'polite' to talk about so I’ll apologise in advance for the following (which will undoubtedly turn into a rant) but I am just so goddamned fed up of being broke (ok, maybe it'll start off as a rant). I work hard, I'm not frivolous with my cash, I don't have expensive tastes yet still I struggle.

Every month without fail, I run out of funds two weeks after pay day. For a fortnight, I just about manage to keep up with my own social life. A dinner here, boozy night there then I check my balance and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I have £30 a week to live on for the remainder of the month. So my life goes: two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, new pair of shoes, three weeks hermitude, and so on.

Friends don't appear to have this problem. Most earn more than me, some several thousand pounds more. Those who don't, have boyfriends who share their cost of living. Some are lucky enough to earn good money AND have a well-paid boyfriend. I am single (as you well know), work in an industry which is notoriously under-paid and haven’t had a pay rise for two years. I long for the day when my bank balance is actually in credit. When I don't come out in a cold sweat when the bill arrives; hold my breath when I insert my card into a chip and pin machine; or have heart palpitations when I check my bank balance.
Of course it's not all bad. I'm lucky in many ways. I live a nice life, I have amazing friends who I do fun things with (at least for the first two weeks of the month), I have a lovely home and I frequently get to travel to exotic places. But it is luck that enables all of this, not money.

The only reason I can just about afford my home is because it's a 'key worker' flat ie. affordable housing for public sector employees who provide an essential service. Clearly, given that I write fluff for a wedding mag, I do not fit that bill – fortunately, as a teacher, my flatmate does and thus she is rewarded the rare benefit of property at 20% less than market value. I am merely riding on her coat tails.

As for all the travelling. That is one of the lucky perks of my job. As I look after the honeymoon pages, it is necessary for me to go and visit the dreamy destinations we feature on group press trips with other random journalists. Admittedly, these trips don't exactly feel like work but I'd give my right arm to just be able to afford an actual holiday, with an actual friend, to decide for myself when and what I want to eat, where I want to go, and when I want to just lie by a pool and read a book rather than make awkward small talk.

Instead, I show up at these 5 star hotels knowing the credit card I'm handing over when I collect my key has no money on it, praying that the tap water is drinkable because I can't afford anything from the mini bar, hoping the bellboys will forgive me for not being able to tip them, and only eating and drinking during hosted meals in order to avoid any situation in which I might have to hand over my red hot credit card. Plus there's an evil irony in being a single girl forced to experience honeymoon after honeymoon ON MY OWN. I actually found myself drinking champagne in a rose petal bath on my last trip. It felt quite lovely until I realised how tragic it was.

I find myself fantasising about what it would be like to be a kept woman. I've never claimed to be one of those strong, enlightened feminists proud to be 'doing it for themselves' but still, I'm very aware that women these days aren't supposed to long for a man to come and rescue them. Worst still, my dream is not the modern WAG's ideal of a platinum Amex and VIP treatment in every designer boutique in town. No, my shameful fantasy is having a man who earns enough to allow me to stay at home and indulge my inner housewife. Yes, I know the women's movement would lynch me for such disregard for their cause. But come on, can you really say it wouldn't be a good life?

In my head, it looks idyllic. I'd jump out of bed at 7am and put on a pot of coffee while he showered. A freshly ironed shirt would be waiting for him when he emerged and after I'd kissed him goodbye and waved him off to work, I'd spend the day pottering around the house cleaning up, flicking through issues of Elle Deco, maybe doing a little writing then by the time he walked back in the door, I'd be waiting with a couple of G&Ts. Hello 1950s! Are any of you ladies still with me? No? Perhaps you earn more money than me.

Or perhaps your husband does.