“I need a new pair of shoes,” my husband says hesitantly, as we engage in our tender nightly ritual of watching 30 Rock reruns while doomscrolling on our phones at opposite ends of the sofa. “Mine have holes in.”
“Let me see,” I snap. He lifts his feet to show me. “Alright,” I sigh. “You can go to M&S tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Just go gentler on them this time,” I reply.
And that, my friends, is how our family finances work. I’m about to write a monograph on it and send it to Nicola Sturgeon, though I appreciate it might be a tad too late.
