I don’t remember ever being officially taught about money. At least, not beyond my dad’s exclamation of: “It doesn’t grow on trees”, as he stomped around the house turning the lights off in rooms my sister and I had left.
But I think the unofficial lessons were there. Pocket money docked if my room wasn’t tidy; mum helping me work out how much spending money I’d need for our summer holiday, and taking me to the Post Office to convert the crumpled one and five pound notes I’d liberated from my piggy bank; reminding me, when I wanted to blow it all on day two, about having to make those francs or dollars or drachma last the week.
As well as my parents’ absolute aversion to what they called “buying on tick” or using credit or a finance deal (much better, and less risky, to save up), lessons like “putting a little away for a rainy day” were absorbed by osmosis.
Shorts
School, however, was a different affair. Growing up in Fife, I have a very strong memory of a lady from the Dunfermline Building Society visiting my primary every fortnight. She wore a straight black skirt and looked far more “office-y” than any of our teachers.
