How do you know you’re getting old? It’s got nothing to do with turning 25 and then having somebody say to you the very next day “Jeez you’re looking old” (As an aside: Fuck you, man. As far as I’m concerned I still have baby fat). It’s all about hearing yourself mumble that killer phrase “Ah the youth of today…”
Which I kinda did when I read this article in The Guardian about how much pocket money kids (English kids actually but who’s counting?) are getting these days. Up to a thousand pounds a year apparently.
Hmm. On the one hand: good work kids and who cares. But on the other hand… part of me vaguely resents this little development because I distinctly remember the Good Old Days when I received exactly a dollar a week in pocket money. A freaking dollar a freaking week. I can’t remember how old I was but I do recall once saving for two weeks to splurge and buy my sister a $1.50 piece of lace (I know, I know - the lace bit makes it sound like I grew up in the Depression but it’s what happened, ahh but they were simpler times).
To compensate for this kind of tough love approach I had to work a string of low-paying fairly crappy jobs from a pretty young age. Highlights include my very own paper route, working the fries at Hungry Jacks and my brief foray into the world of the sandwich deli where my boss chain-smoked and I nearly cut off my thumb with the industrial meat slicer.
And yet - and I say this filled with fear of getting too comfortable in my role as Wise Old Woman Reflecting On Her Past - I think it actually did me some good. These days I expect to have to work for it if I want something, I appreciate the slightly better-paying awesome job I have now and I’m mighty handy if you want your ham sliced up wafer thin. Even better if you want some human blood on the side.
And I’m not sure that I would have any of that if I’d had large cash sums dolled out to me by Ma n’ Pa Emery.
Then again, hoping down from my pedestal right about now I did just spend a crazy, crazy amount of money on a pair of ridiculously costly stockings which I had flown in from (ahem) London, and I have, now that I come to think of it, blown my savings on a whirlwind trip I can’t ‘technically’ afford.
Um what was I saying about life lessons learned? It’s all bunk. Damn you Mum and Dad - where was that silver spoon I was promised at birth?
Which I kinda did when I read this article in The Guardian about how much pocket money kids (English kids actually but who’s counting?) are getting these days. Up to a thousand pounds a year apparently.
Hmm. On the one hand: good work kids and who cares. But on the other hand… part of me vaguely resents this little development because I distinctly remember the Good Old Days when I received exactly a dollar a week in pocket money. A freaking dollar a freaking week. I can’t remember how old I was but I do recall once saving for two weeks to splurge and buy my sister a $1.50 piece of lace (I know, I know - the lace bit makes it sound like I grew up in the Depression but it’s what happened, ahh but they were simpler times).
To compensate for this kind of tough love approach I had to work a string of low-paying fairly crappy jobs from a pretty young age. Highlights include my very own paper route, working the fries at Hungry Jacks and my brief foray into the world of the sandwich deli where my boss chain-smoked and I nearly cut off my thumb with the industrial meat slicer.
And yet - and I say this filled with fear of getting too comfortable in my role as Wise Old Woman Reflecting On Her Past - I think it actually did me some good. These days I expect to have to work for it if I want something, I appreciate the slightly better-paying awesome job I have now and I’m mighty handy if you want your ham sliced up wafer thin. Even better if you want some human blood on the side.
And I’m not sure that I would have any of that if I’d had large cash sums dolled out to me by Ma n’ Pa Emery.
Then again, hoping down from my pedestal right about now I did just spend a crazy, crazy amount of money on a pair of ridiculously costly stockings which I had flown in from (ahem) London, and I have, now that I come to think of it, blown my savings on a whirlwind trip I can’t ‘technically’ afford.
Um what was I saying about life lessons learned? It’s all bunk. Damn you Mum and Dad - where was that silver spoon I was promised at birth?
2 comments:
Geez, is this what happens when you hit 25??? I'm less than a year away and trying to quell the rising sense of panic...
Yeah be afraid Johnsy - I’m still an immature bint and this is the kind of shit I’m coming up with…
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