Three Pounds And Fifty-Two Pence.

Having no money sucks. In the olden days- hark at me, the 'olden days' being a week ago before I discovered I was pregnant- I would have quite happily survived the week running up to payday on strong black coffee, Marlboro Reds and afternoon naps. I find myself with thirty-six pounds to my name, the exact price of a weekly season ticket to work if I walk 3 miles in the morning and 3 miles in the evening, and no food in the cupboards. Save olive oil, a single can of tuna, and little else. I chomp on a nectarine, struggling to get my five a day for moneys sake, and decide that tomorrow I will go to the doctors, saving myself a tenner, and now I am going to the supermarket, to spend that tenner on food. I have to. I can't survive on vitamin pills, and neither can my baby. I need some fresh fish, some sandwich meat, and have the gargantuan total of three pounds and fourteen pence to go shopping with. I rummage through drawers like a mad lady, scrambling for change. Inside a chipped ramekin dish in a drawer in my bedroom I find 38p. Marvellous. I think I can manage from here.