Do not save what is left after spending, but spend what is left after saving. Warren Buffett
One of the quirks of being fortunate enough to have both parents still alive and moaning on full throttle – as I aspire to do if I reach that age – is that many of the tasks they did for you as a child are now yours to return.
Money is perhaps the most contentious aspect of this, especially with a generation that skimped and saved to such an extent they almost forgot how to actually spend the money they worked so hard for.
Add this to a natural, long-held distrust in banks, accountants and solicitors. Indeed, add anybody in a sharp suit and tales of deceased people who appeared to live a frugal life leaving eye-popping estates are commonplace.
Of course, how we control our finances these days is alien to the likes of my Mum. When I show her bank account on my phone to her, it is as if she expects the thing to start dispensing notes.
As high street banks reduce their physical presence, a chunk of society has been abandoned; ironically, one that may actually constitute significant levels of savings.
Online banking is great, no denying that, but when you want some real service, the customer experience these days is pitiful. Perhaps this suits the banks as billions left on measly deposit rates serve them well, able as they are to reinvest at the commercial interest rates they charge rather than pay?
If the aim truly is to improve customer service, how is it that any attempt to ring them ends up with the usual “we’re receiving an unusually high number of calls today.” This is so frequent as to suggest the obvious – they need to employ more staff and here, not bloody Mumbai.
However, the system is failing the elderly, the remote, the ill-informed, all for a few points on the share price.
For the record, as a bank shareholder, am I being hypocritical? Perhaps, but any upside I see is more than wiped out each and every time I land on the sub-continent with Cheerful Charlie about to ruin my day.
Yorkshire CCC – The Saga
The latest rescheduled meeting on March 14th had to be rearranged due to a palaver that one would not expect at The Wheeltappers & Shunters – see here.
Funny how the club term this as a meeting as requisitioned by members. It was necessitated by the combined bungling of the game’s governing body and the expensively remunerated Lord Patel, the unelected Chairman.
Members are being asked to retrospectively approve a raft of rules enforced on them; it will be interesting to see how this pans out. Assuming, of course, Lord Patel actually allows the press in this time.
It’s just not cricket.
All The Gear, Absolutely No Idea
In twenty years of coaching, I witnessed hundreds of kids forced into the sporting arena, clad in the latest branded gear, holding the latest in bat technology (sometimes even the right way up).
With a wry smile, I contemplated why I now possess two drills – both gifts (dubious choices) – as I looked at an insect-ridden pile of planks on the allotment and decided I could use these.
It started badly as I’d drawn blood before even wielding my new saw, picking it up at the wrong side, the one with all the teeth. Still, not long after I had constructed something seemingly worthwhile.
Hope springs eternal; if only I could ever have said that about the kids and those shiny new bats.
The Dirty Game
I nearly fell off my chair when I saw this headline: Chelsea want Saturday’s FA Cup quarter-final at Middlesbrough to be played behind closed doors “for matters of sporting integrity” .
How they can combine sporting integrity and Chelsea FC in the same sentence is beyond me. Here is a club – and a league – that has welcomed £1.5bn of dodgy money to bankroll it.
Clickbait
Reluctant to get out of bed the other day, at least until my Dad was convinced into turning the heating on, my Mum was playing hard to get.
“If you don’t get up now your picture will be all over the blog!” I threatened and, like a naughty child, the message landed instantly and she was skipping to the bathroom muttering all kinds of profanities.
Taking her window seat she watched as Our Kid mowed her back lawn, presumably in the hope the Old Man might throw a few quid in his direction like yesteryear. Up she jumped, jabbing at the window.
“‘E’s bald!!!” I’d not seen her this animated since the kids across the street parked straddling the bus stop – “hang ’em!” – but it was more proof there is life in the old dog yet.
How Not To End A Week
The usual circuit training instructor was away so we had our yoga guru as a stand-in. I knew I was in trouble the minute the warm-up – shake the beers off from Thirsty Thursday – started with Stayin’ Alive belting out of the speakers.
I’d barely woken up as she started gyrating – in time – urging us (me) – to do the same – not a chance. Reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors I had four agonising minutes of why nightclubs were never a happy experience.
It was murder on the dance floor all over again.
Phil Marks says
The Yorkshire CCC saga continues. I have just looked at the EGM circular, with a raft of rules, that has been sent to Yorkshire members prior to their meeting at the end of March. I think this is going to be a very long meeting!!!