MY dear, departed mother, bless her heart, was a past master at extracting the absolute maximum from everything that came her way. Put simply, she wouldn’t spend a penny where a halfpenny would do.
Old newspapers were stored underneath settee cushions, then scrunched up daily to light the fire with.
Except for Chronicle broadsheets, that is, which were held or Sellotaped over the fireplace, drawing air up the chimney back, giving struggling flames a boost.
Sometimes, she’d even cut newspapers into little squares, hanging them by string on the back of the outside bog door. I know, I know…but needs must, I suppose.
Sideboard drawers were awash with assorted balls of multi-coloured wool. I’d rarely be treated to new socks.
Instead, she’d spend her time darning away in front of Saturday night telly, fingers going fifty to the dozen, eradicating holes, watching The Generation Game, Dixon of Dock Green or Parkinson.
She’d mend tears in shirts and trousers, routinely passing down garments from my brother, items so voluminous it must have left me resembling Tom Hanks in Big.
When items of clothing were finally written off, she’d cannibalise buttons for her legendary button tin, cutting material up for use as dusters and rags.
As for food, well… Waste not want not was her motto, running through her like letters in a stick of Blackpool rock, famously crafting scrumptious meat pies with Sunday joint leftovers. Even unused wallpaper was utilised, backing schoolbooks and lining kitchen drawer and cupboard space.
Frugality comes in different guises, however. With my mother, it was out of necessity. With some people, it’s a premeditated, deliberate ruse to dilute outgoings. Like the bloke we all know down the pub, the one who says, “Thee get ‘em in, pal, and I’ll get t’ next,” letting you to buy the first, third and fifth, before dropping the customary bombshell: “Reight, pal, I’m off. I promised our lass I’d be in at half past. She’ll have me guts for garters if I’m any later …”
And who can forget Jud’s hilarious frugality quips in Kes? When he says to his mother: “At least them I knock about with aren’t tight-fisted.” Her response? “You’ve some need to talk. You’re like a Scotchman with no arms.”
Asking if he fancies buying her a rum and pep, Jud flippantly retorts: “Ar, I hope it stays fine for you,” before belittling her fancy man, Reg, in the club with his caustic tight as a camel’s arse in a sandstorm and confetti on elastic rebukes.
Back in the real world, there’s no shortage of frugality-based put-downs doing the rounds. Imagine a fictional Bob and Penny Tanner from Jump, trading verbal blows before a night out in big city Wombwell:
“Fancy buying me a drink tonight, Bob?”
“Tha what? Tha’s more chance of platting fog.”
“There’s a shocker. Tha that tight, thee, tha can peel an orange in thi pocket.”
“Hark at thee. Last time tha dropped five pence, tha stooped that quick it hit thi on t’ back of t’ neck.”
“Ha! At least when I get a fiver out of my purse, King Charles doesn’t blink with t’ flipping light.”
“At least I don’t squeak when I walk.”
“Says the only bloke I know who took a penny arrow back for a refund… Then installed double glazing so t’ kids couldn’t hear t’ ice-cream van.”
Anyway, I’d best be off. It’s ‘er indoors birthday and I need to get her a present. When it was mine, she said she couldn’t afford a full cake and sixty candles, so she got me half a cake and thirty candles, standing it in front of a mirror.
As a reward, I was thinking of taking her out to look for some cheap flights. Apparently, there’s some cracking deals on at that new darts shop in tarn. Afterwards, I might treat her by walking her past that steak house she said she liked the smell of. Yup, I might walk her past again…getting my own back for the lovely pearl 30th wedding anniversary she got me: a buy one-get-one-free deal on 40w lightbulbs – how’s that for frugality?
