I’ve always been a scrimper. Always. Its the way I was brought up. And being Old Mum, I was brought up by parents in the Seventies who were brought up in the Forties and there were some wars around then where you really couldn’t order a new coat online that you quite like the look of and keep in the wardrobe, unworn for the next ten years because you have lots of other coats you also like.

My father told me how his father used to keep every bit of string that passed through his hands, delicately knotted and wound into one big ball. As parcels were only ever sealed with brown paper and string in those days and most people had little plots where runner beans and tomatoes would need tying in – not to mention the twig and string fishing rods my father and his brother would have required in large quantities – the ball would have been in constant use.

Such practical frugality came from necessity but such was the habit, my parents also kept odd bits of string, even though they were well off. I like to strike up small conversations with old ladies over rummage boxes in charity shops. A common opening remark between us will being with “I can’t bear waste.”

And I can’t. I really can’t. At the moment I have very little money coming in. At various times I have had heaps of money coming in and I thank all the stars in heaven for my scrimpiness because, aside from a lot of champagne-filled nights with expensive taxis home afterwards and some rather wild generosity which I kind of regret, I saved a lot of it which is partly why, now I am Poor Old Mum, I have a very small mortgage.

And a lifetime of scrimping skills to keep me and Youngster well fed, clothed, happy and out of the gutter.

Here are my qualifications for passing on reams of tips, ideas and lifestyle kind of things to you. (See category side bar for lots of  this).

Child: Ration book parents and a scrimping childhood.

Teen: Living on actually nothing as benefit rules were different then, while sharing houses with lots of people. Ha! A memory has just popped into Old Mum’s head: Five of us were in a tatty old house in the East End of London. Food means less when you are 17 but you do acknowledge you need some of it to live. My house mates were all students but had spent their grant in the first week of term on Thunderbird (http://www.bumwine.com/tbird.htmlin.)

A rumour sprang up like the sparks from our lethal old sockets, that Stuart had been shopping. I crept into the kitchen at midnight to find an entire loaf of Mother’s Pride in the cupboard nestling among the woodlice. I remember folding back its wrapper so slowly, bit by bit to avoid detection….only to find “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT” written on the top slice in nail varnish. Yes we loved Rik Mayal, RIP, yes that is how students really lived.

Early twenties: This was the era of housing co-ops and organised squats and since I had started working on newspapers by then and had my £6,000 a year as a cub reporter by then (I am uneasy with the fact that at 46 I am now living on the same amount) we were extremely well off. However, despite living in a mansion on the New Kent Rd, for nothing, all legal (oh those golden days!) you do need certain scrimping skills as the deal did not include electricity or a boiler. (We connected ourselves to the street source and balanced large metal tea urns on the side of the bath to get hot water if you’re wondering. Yes, they were plugged in. Yes we sometimes did the whole operation while drinking afore-mentioned Thunderbird. I know. )

Thirties: Lots of money. Really lots. But I still scrimped. Apart from the champagne and taxis, I bought bargain clothes and grew veg. And looked at cheques for enormous amounts of money and put them straight into my National Savings Account because I really didn’t know what else to do with it.

Then I had my eco crisis of conscience and went to Australia and New Zealand for two years and worked on worm farms and herb gardens and anti-logging camps and lived in yurts and solar powered huts and bathed in glorious rivers and was incredibly happy. And wore whatever clothes I came across that would fit into one small, dusty backpack. Scrimping doesn’t come into it when you can only eat what you can grow and there is only power to cook dinner if the sun is shining.

Forties: Less money due to full time eco conscience and commitment only to work for charities that are helping to save the world/people etc. But enough not to panic when the gas bill comes in.

Today: Unexpected redundancy while on maternity leave. The benefits system is a strange one to Old Mum but she tries not to feel be embarrassed by it and reminds herself the government has yet to come anywhere near paying out what she has given it in taxes over the years. She also knows she will be earning again soon so she will not have to worry too much about the fact she is an actual Single Mum On Benefits.

So this is why Old Mum is mean. And the cost of living in a house, in a city, like normal people with a child who does need some money spent on him, is that Frugality for me is not some chic and interesting lifestyle choice but utterly essential. As a result I have pulled out every single scrimping skill I possess and am adding more on a daily basis to the point where it has become exciting (at best), a bit annoying (at worst).  The fun bits are finding nice tops in hedges and getting antique mandolins from Freecycle. Its a bit wearing when you have to scan the menu and bargain with the coffee shop staff on a day out with more affluent mums and I really do dread those gas bills. But we don’t flush the loo all the time, we shower or have half baths, we buy next to nothing compared to everyone else and we survive.

And in the back of my mind, I think I prefer living like this. Like my Grandfather and his ball of string.