April 2: Skintville

I'm so broke at the moment. This week, I've had carpenters in for two days to put up shelves in Bump's room, and in the lounge and under-stairs cupboard. I've also booked a painter to do my stairs and landing, which I can't do. Even with the best will in the world, there's no way I'm going up a ladder. Then, for the past two months, there's been £50 a week for the counsellor who has, to be fair, saved my life, if I can dare to be so dramatic (I blame the Indians for that particular outgoing). Then there's hypno-birthing. Yes, that one's definitely a luxury but, on the other hand, I may only be pregnant once so sod it. I've not had tremendous support, have I, so anything I can get is a god-send. Each day, I walk to Tesco Metro up the hill (I'm getting slower), buy my newspapers and random fruit and veg, then stop off at the cash point. £100 one day. £300 the next. £200 the next. It's got so bad that my bank's fraud department rang me today to ask me if it was really me spending all the money or if it was some trickster in Azerbaijan. I should have lied and blamed the trickster but I didn't think fast enough. I felt very guilty. I started explaining. New house. Shelves. Paint. Building work. I don't think the man on the end of the phone cared. You want to be skint, you go for it, love. No skin off my nose.