Don't Even Go There!

This was the response I got from one of my colleagues at work the other day.  However, such is my memory, that I can't remember who it was, nor what we had been talking about.  What I do recall is the comment to which he/she responded: "I reckon you get a good idea of the extent of inflation over the last fifty years if you think of today's prices in shillings and pence."

Last weekend included Mothering Sunday and, like many, my thoughts turned to family ... not just my mother, but father too, and our family life together.  The arrival today of my new Council Tax bill, and the recent letter from the DfWP telling me what my state pension will be next month, have enabled me to finalise my budget for the new tax year.  With this in mind, the searchlight of my family recollections has picked out one particular day - probably in a school holiday when I was a bored eight-, nine- or ten-year-old - when I sat on the foot of my parents' bed as mum opened her wardrobe and withdrew an old clutch handbag.

This handbag, dating from the era of World War 2 or thereabouts, now resides in what passes for my family archive - a cupboard in the corner of my own bedroom - where it shares company with, inter alia, a small money box in the form of a 'pillar box'.  These were the instruments of my mother's financial planning, and on that occasion I was permitted to watch - silent by request to aid her concentration, and mesmerised by a side of her that was completely new to me - as she put them to use.  

She had a number of these 'pillar boxes', but only one now survives.  In them were stored coins put by for specific expenses so that funds were available when bills became due.  I don't recall the specifics now, but I expect there were tins for all sorts of monthly expenses that would be provided for on a weekly basis.  In the handbag were a number of envelopes in which were kept further and larger collections of money for annual things, like insurances, Christmas presents and the television licence ... and the family holiday!

With my father at work, and much of his evenings and weekends spent on the garden, the only really family time that I enjoyed in the company of both parents in those years, was the annual week at Great Yarmouth.  I've no idea of the overall cost of those holidays but, amazingly and, unlike other times when a request might be refused on the grounds of 'we can't afford things like that', there was sufficient to pay for all sorts of luxuries.

The first cost was the taxi fare from home to the railway station, closely followed by the return train tickets,  When we arrived, although there were many young boys anxious to earn pocket money by meeting holidaymakers with hand-carts to carry their luggage, another taxi would ensure that both we and the suitcases would arrive quickly, safely and together at the boarding house, something in excess of a mile from the station.

Once greetings had been exchanged and refreshment offered and taken, we settled in, and garden vegetables were handed over for use during the week (this gesture probably contributed to the overall cost of the accommodation: I have no idea whether this was paid up front or at the end of the week).  The first major undertaking was then to get booked up for the various seaside shows. In addition to the Windmill theatre and the Aquarium on the seafront and the Regal at the town end of Regent Road, there were regular performances on each of the two piers on week nights - the Sunday shows with the greater stars were beyond our price range - and we always seemed to fit in a visit to the Hippodrome circus on the Tuesday afternoon.

When these bookings had been secured, the true holiday could begin.  I remember that I was allowed a magnificent half-a-crown a day spending money, much of which, in later years, would be spent on bus fares as I explored the town on my own ... such freedom as would be deemed quite dangerous these days!  Often if we had been for a walk together in the evenings, we would stop at the fish and chip shop just down the road from our boarding house and get some chips to replace the energies used up by the exercise.

When I consider what all this must have cost, I have to marvel at how my mother managed to stretch her resources because, alongside all the other things for which she had to budget, it was all funded by, and saved up for week by week from my father's pay packet, which amounted to no more than £8 or £9.  Once tax had been deducted, there seemed to be an odd 4d in the amount that was left each week, and this was passed to me as 'pocket money'.

All this is a far cry from the luxury of 2021!  I recall now the examples in my mind that remained unexpressed the other day - a single Eccles cake from a packet of four from the supermarket costs 8/- and a cup of machine coffee at a service station almost 3 guineas!