Cents and Sensibility

I have a very uptight, English view on money: don't talk about it, but if you must, pretend you have loads of it. This means I regularly do things I can't afford (unless I eat tinned spaghetti for the remainder of the year - in March), and simply can't stand those who bang on about money and how little of it they have. After all, if you have nothing nice to say, keep your trap shut.

Rugby, I fear, is not of this school of thought. Staring at the menu of a nice-ish (approximately mid-ranking in my restaurant categorisations which consist of excellent! and cheap!! through to excellent! but expensive) restaurant with mains at about $30 I already knew not to even think about entree and dessert if we ate there. Definitely not drinks. It got worse. I watched with fascination as his already-thin lips pursed a little further, and indignation whipped across his face like an August wind.

"That," he said as he jabbed at the menu, "is ridiculous!".

Uh-oh. I knew what was going to happen here. Cheap Chinese, and the rest of the night agreeing that it tasted just as good - if not better! - than that stuck-up restaurant and how criminal it was what they charged for a meal these days. I could already feel myself prematurely ageing.

I stared at the 3 tiny straps of Italian gold leather that had been categorised by an import official as "shoes", and that had cost $200, and sighed. I decided now was not the time to declare my penchant for good, MSG-free food nor should I mention my plans of being a housewife to a Very Rich Man.