by As a boy I was often blown away by how casually my parents talked about sums in the thousands. “A thousand to you is worth a normal pound to me!” I remember saying. Now I’m in my forties and I’ve come a long way: two of those three zeros have been wiped out – there’s just a ten-to-one relationship between my parents’ financial world and mine. Their financial position hasn’t really sunk in to them. When Mum complained that politicians give handouts to both the rich and the poor and don’t care about those in the middle – like them – I just about spat out my tea. Just yesterday, Dad began a sentence with “If I was a millionaire”. Had he suddenly switched to the Kuwaiti dinar, worth NZ$5.42 or £2.55? I wonder how much their vast wealth – let’s be frank – has been a demotivator to me, or at least a motivator to think, bugger this and exit the world of real estate offices on every corner. It’s also been a source of some upset for my brother. Mum and Dad are seriously giving the cost of flights as a reason not to see their grandson? Gimme a break. They could easily fly business class. (Seriously, how many more return trips to the UK will they make? Four or so? It would be worthwhile use of their money.)
Mum and Dad don’t agree on everything, but when it comes to their finances they’re a team, steadfast in defence. Five-nil up with five minutes to go, the gleaming silverware long since secured, still keen to score another goal if the chance presents itself, but desperate not to concede. Their renovation has cut out a lot of their cooking facilities and made dinnertime a stressful part of the day. Mum is a good cook and rustles up something tasty every night, but there’s always tension in the air. (Dad said he’d like to help but she won’t let him.) I suggested that twice a week they should eat out or get takeaways, just to lighten the load during the renovation. Eighty bucks a week for the two of them; it would surely be worth it. They thought I was mad. There aren’t many restaurants in Geraldine, they said, and the cost! Since I arrived 17 days ago, we’ve had two takeaways – sausage and chips on the day I arrived, and fish and chips from Palmerston – and had two coffees out, including at Mitre 10 in Timaru yesterday.
A lot of their frugality has rubbed off on me. My brother and I were hardly spoilt as kids, with the exception of travel, although even that was mostly on the cheap. We had little “stuff”, and basically no expensive stuff, but never felt deprived. Big-brand clothes and shoes were unthinkable. Even at ten, I knew that £60 Nike or Reebok trainers were a huge waste of money, and didn’t demand them. Between 24 and 28 I got regular pay rises and spent a bit more freely, but when my career soon went rapidly south and I took out a mortgage I tightened my belt considerably. I find proper eating out – at actual restaurants – quite stressful and tend to avoid it. It can take ages to get served – especially in Romania – and there’s the whole issue of tipping (I’m ideologically opposed to the concept) which, alarmingly, is starting to become a thing even in New Zealand. When I lived in Wellington there was a huge choice of “semi-restaurants” – Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese – that served yummy, inexpensive food in a virtually stress-free environment. I miss those. But if I had my parents’ riches, hopefully I’d check out those real restaurants a little more often.
