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My biological father (with whom I lived for the first eighteen years of my life) is a miser. I don't say that lightly, and neither do I mean it in a trivial way. I'm not talking about a relatively harmless reluctance to spend money, or a desire to get a bargain. I'm not complaining that I only got 50p a week in pocket money when I was growing up, when all my friends got £1. (This is true, mind, I'm just not complaining about it.)
My biological father will do anything — and, crucially sacrifice almost anything — in order to spend no money at all, wherever that's possible, or as little money as he can get away with if it's not.
An example. I grew up in the seventies. At some point in that decade, I don't remember when exactly, I began to see TV adverts for the Sodastream. For those that don't know, this is a system of carbonating tap-water, and then adding flavoured syrup to it to create a fizzy drink. In the seventies, certainly to a child in working-class Stourbridge, this seemed impossibly exotic. Space-age, even. The device itself looked futuristic (now, of course, that original device is over forty years old and looks tacky as hell, but in the seventies? My goodness!) and the process of making a drink appealed to my nascent, scientific brain. The bottle, once filled with water, was inserted into a transparent plastic sleeve, and a lever pulled to make everything airtight and sealed. Then the carbonation would begin via a button on top of the device. Fancy it fizzier? Just press a few more times. Then the delights of choosing the flavour. Cola? Lime? Lemon? All were available, and plenty more. I wanted one.
At this point, it's important to realise we weren't a poor family. We weren't wealthy, by any means, but we were never rooting down the back of the sofa, trying to find a stray 50p to feed the electricity meter. My biological father just acted as if we were. Even so, once my campaign to get a SodaStream had entered it’s second week and he'd realised I wasn't going to forget about it (how could I, with an advert on the TV every 15 minutes?) he began the process of working out the economics.
He calculated how much a bottle of pre-made ‘pop’ (soda) cost us, and how many we got through in a week. He worked out how much the SodaStream machine would cost, then did his best to factor in how expensive a gas canister was, how long it would last for, and how many bottles of pop it could produce in that time. To do this he had to take into account how fizzy each bottle was being made, and therefore how many presses of the magic button on top of the machine were allowable for his maths to hold up. He then had to factor in the price of the syrup, how much would be added per bottle, where it could be obtained at its cheapest, how long it would last for before going off, etc.
Now, in a way, this isn't so bizarre. But this was the days before the internet, none of this information was readily available and it all had to be worked out. And he was precise, or felt he had to be at least. He wasn't looking for gross differences in cost. whether we had a SodaStream or not would boil down to pennies. If it was even slightly less expensive than buying premade soda, then we would have one. If it turned out to cost even a few pence more, then we would not.
And the process took weeks. Possibly months. The one thing he wasn't factoring into any of this was joy. Fun. Pleasure. And by the time he made a decision. I barely cared any more, particularly as the decision to buy one came with conditions. I could only use three presses to carbonate the water and I had to cut back on flavouring in order to make it economically worthwhile. And this is something he fully intended to police, make no mistake. By the time the machine was procured (from the cheapest source, of course) I didn't even really want one. There was no joy left.
Another example, this one slightly less trivial? A few years ago, his partner died after suffering with severe vascular dementia for a number of years. A few months later, he had to return to the caravan they'd owned together, and at which they'd spent many happy hours, in order to prepare it for sale.
He hadn't been back for a while because of his partner’s illness. It was going to be a traumatic trip. When he told me about it (we were talking, then, unlike now) he said he wouldn't be able to sleep there.
‘So where are you going to sleep?’ I said
‘In the car.’
I asked him why. 'Where else am I going to sleep?’ he said.
‘A hotel? A Bed and Breakfast?’
‘Costs money.’
‘But you have money,’ I said. I knew this; a by-product of being so miserly for your entire life is that you do end up with a fair amount in the bank. ‘Enough to pay for a night in a hotel. Spend a little bit,’ I said. I trotted out all the cliches. You can't take it with you. There are no pockets in shrouds. Etc. ‘Look,’ I said, eventually. ‘It's not going to be a nice trip. It will bring back a lot of memories and stir up some grief. So why don't you at least book yourself into a nice hotel, and treat yourself to dinner and maybe even a glass or two of wine before driving home the next day?’
Eventually, I offered to find him a reasonably priced hotel in the area (I considered offering to pay as well, I knew he could afford it, and this was more about trying to get him to spend some of his money while he still could). Still reluctant, he agreed. He booked the place I suggested.
When he returned, I asked how it had been. ‘Fine, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘But I still don't understand how you thought that would work out cheaper than sleeping in my car.’
I tried to remain patient. ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘There are more arguments than the economic one. There are better reasons to do something than it being the cheapest option. Was the bed comfortable? What did you have for dinner? Did you have some wine or get chatting to any of the other guests? Did you have a nice time?’
He didn't answer. He didn't see it. None of those things were important to him, just whether he'd saved any money.
I think this is possibly one of the saddest things about my biological father’s condition. (A condition which is, I suspect OCD. he's not an obsessive handwasher or anything like that, but he does have other traits. And a reluctance to spend money, or a hyperfocus on economics and budgeting, as a symptom of obsessive compulsive disorder.) There is no joy in his life, other than the dubious pleasure of knowing he has more in his bank account now than he did ten years ago. But what's the point of that? He's in his eighties, but has never travelled, has never stayed in a nice hotel or splashed out on some beautiful clothes or vintage wine. Has never treated himself, in whatever form that may take. And he certainly has no plans to leave his money to me, that much he has made abundantly clear. He acts as if life is a rehearsal, and he gets to carry forward the money remaining in his bank account when he dies, presumably to a new and more exciting reality.
Anyway, I was reminded of all this the other day. I was staying in a hotel in London last week. I was up visiting friends and seeing a concert or two. One evening I returned to my room late at night. I felt peckish, though not hungry enough to order room service, or trek out looking for something. I gazed longingly at the Pringles in the minibar. If only, I thought. They would just be perfect right now.
But I knew the snacks in the minibar were hugely overpriced, and my biological father taught me not to go near anything that was overpriced. In his eyes, it was a sort of moral failing, to spend money on crisps that could be obtained for more cheaply from the shop round the corner. The fact that the shop round the corner was closed until tomorrow morning, and I was hungry now, was irrelevant.
Subconsciously, I still hear that message, loud and clear (if subconsciously and loud and clear are not oxymoronic). So I looked at the crisps I couldn't have, longingly. Then (as always happens, now) I realised I could have them. I could afford them, I wanted them they were there, they were convenient. Yes, they were significantly more expensive, but so what? And crucially, my father wasn't there to tell me, I was wasting money, and I should be ashamed of myself.
So you know what? I ate the Pringles. I had the KitKat, too. And a can of beer. And I loved every overpriced mouthful of all of it. But as I ate my deliciously overpriced and horribly nutrition-free meal, I pondered why, even at my age, I still have to jump through that mental hoop and have the imaginary conversation with my biological father before I go ahead and take something from the minibar. Whether through a process of osmosis or bullying, our parents values and beliefs become part of our own DNA. (And I was lucky. Had my mother been the same when I was growing up, I might've found it impossible to unwrite those rules around spending money. But though her first husband’s bullying beliefs affected her as well, my mother is usually the one telling me to go on and buy something I want, as long as I can afford it. Hers is a sensible prudence with money, she hates wasting it, but she doesn't hate spending it).
It's a tough job to still be evaluating the beliefs we've inherited, rather than formed ourselves. But it's hugely important. Often our parents beliefs no longer benefit us. Yet they are entwined in our DNA. And I know, in my case at least, they probably always will be. But as long as, eventually, I manage to hush my biological father's voice and eat the damn Snickers bar, I guess that's okay.
Over to you…
Are there any of your parents’ beliefs or habits that no longer serve you, but you find yourself having to consciously overcome?
Great post, SJ. I wonder if your dad's attitude to money was formed by his own parents. As you say, very difficult sometimes to overcome ways of thinking ingrained in us from birth.
One thing I remember my dad saying to me, which he no doubt considered to be a pearl of wisdom: "Don't ever tell anyone your opinions - nobody's interested." I was quite an opinionated kid, so this was a bit of a dilemma, lol. And my mum always said "Don't get involved." In other words, stay out of difficult situations, keep people at arm's length. I didn't take that advice either. But I'm not as socially at ease as many people who were brought up by gregarious, outgoing parents.
By the way, I did frown when my son drank the £8 bottle of water from a mini bar once, as he said the bottled water we'd bought wasn't so nice. He still reminds me of that from time to time, and he's 30 now, lol.
I love this post SJ! And it resonates. Not so penny pinching but in my late teens my Dad was earning enough money to take us on some great road trips around the US. They were amazing BUT my dad was obsessed with collecting points from a hotel chain that was always located on the outskirts of cities. He wouldn't consider staying anywhere else. Or have any extras the hotel offered - definitely not the mini bar! So we would spend our holidays driving into the city, spending ages looking for free parking and then heading back to our hotel which was usually off a freeway next to a Dairy Queen. When I booked the first road trip of my own I automatically started looking at that same chain but then realised NO! I can book where I like. So I booked city centre hotels where we could walk to all the sights. Not only that we paid for the extravagance of valet parking. Yes we spent a lot but I still get joy thinking about the experience now.