I knew that this was going to be a challenge but I really had no idea how difficult not spending money is. It turns out that money is really quite useful. In the last 48 hours I managed to get ridiculously drunk and go clubbing without spending a single penny (I do not condone this behaviour, by the way, I should have stayed at home in bed with a book) but nearly had to give up on my non-spending ways when my car got a flat tyre and when I ended up in NHS Urgent Care in need of medicine.
Let's cover the important things first: how did I manage a good, old, traditional English bender with no money? Well, the first step was that I convinced my friends to drink at home on a Saturday evening instead of going to a pub. I provided the vermouth, my gracious host provided the Hendrick's and the rest is an extremely messy evening of very large martinis made in a red wine glasses with no ice, drinking games and a waterfall of the most filthy language you can possibly imagine coming from my mouth. Except I then dragged all of my friends to the pub because another friend of mine was leaving sunny England for home in the US. Luckily, we were so drunk that we couldn't accurately read a clock and arrived 15 minutes before the pub closed and there wasn't enough time for me to be tempted to buy a G&T. Also, the room was spinning and I wouldn't have been able to find the bar if I had tried.
But how did you go clubbing, I hear you ask. Good question. I should point out that we had arrived at the pub via taxi that my gracious host paid for. He was then pretty damn adamant that we go to a club called Cindies (it's not actually called that, it's called Ballare, and there is also no consensus on how 'Cindies' is actually spelled) and he also offered to pay for my entry 'for my birthday'. My birthday is in October. But the non-buying Gods were smiling on me because when we arrived at the club and my friends discovered that they were trying to charge £7 to entry (a ridiculous sum given how grotty and teenage-filled the club is) we promptly left. For Wetherspoon's.
I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with this Wetherspoon thing, I'm not even sure I completely understand it, but let me explain to you what I think I know.
There are about a gazillion Wetherspoon's all over the UK. Just in Cambridge there are two. They appear to be some sort of pub looking things that serve pub food and alcohol until about 9pm when they clear the tables from the 'dancefloor' and stop serving food. And then they play Rhianna, the place fills with the most diverse range of people I have ever seen in a club and they sell drinks at ridiculously low prices (G&Ts are £1.99!). Most importantly, there is free entry.
So, into Wetherspoons we go. My friends all go to check their coats. This costs £2 so I decide to stash mine in my super cool Strand book bag that I use as a handbag because it fits the entire world inside it and can be washed in the washing machine. Then I pee. Then I find my friends again. They are at the bar. Someone hands me water. I take a big gulp. It's not water. It's G&T. (My hipster friend, who was out on this expedition as well, has this endearing habit of buying a round of drinks every time we walk into a pub or club. Which would be nice if any of us had the stamina to stick around long enough to pay the favour back. But it never happens. And he never ceases to buy the first round.)
This is the point in the night where I had a panic attack about all the people and bolted to a quiet corner. I met some lovely people there and we chatted for the rest of my evening while my friends searched the club frantically for me. They found me eventually and we walked home.
So I was feeling quite please with myself; I had managed an entire night out without spending a penny. Well, I felt pleased with the non-spending part of my behaviour. I think the rest of it had a lot to be desired. Post-drinking binge, however, was a lot tougher.
The first thing I wanted to do when I woke up was drink all of the water in the world. That accomplished, I showered and helped my former partner move. But then I was really hungry. But I was also really damn sleepy and cranky and couldn't be bothered making food. But I couldn't just go out and buy food. Suddenly, not buying for a whole month was the worst idea I had ever had. I had successfully managed to not spend a penny while being the drunkest person on the planet the night before but a tired, sober, hungry Elise was just about ready to buy all the crisps in the world and eat them.
You'll be happy to know that I did no such thing. In fact, I came home and cooked a nice meal with enough left over for lunch tomorrow while simultaneously cooking chickpeas, kidney beans and soya beans that I then froze so that I have protein on hand when I need it.
I was starting to get pretty good at this.
While moving my friend, however, I hit a little bit of a snag. A few months ago I noticed that my car felt a bit funny on the left hand rear side. I suspected it was a deflating tyre but instead of pumping it up I just drove around on it for weeks and weeks and weeks until it eventually punctured. Luckily, I had the hipster handyman in the car with me at the time so he changed it to the spare and I had it replaced eventually.
But today I noticed the same thing while driving again but on the left front side. After a quick physical inspection I confirmed that the tyre was indeed in need of pumping up. Which is a problem in the UK because service stations charge for air. But since the car is technically still owned by both me and my former partner, and since I was helping him move, he was more than happy to cover the 50p for the 4 minutes of air. Spending averted.
But I thought it was all over this afternoon when I realised that I was quite ill and needed antibiotics. After waiting hours for an appointment, off I drive to NHS Out of Hours Urgent Care in Chesterton for my 9.30pm appointment. 2 hours later I'm still in the waiting room not having seen a doctor and I'm starting to freak out because the Boots on Newmarket Road, the only late-night chemist in Cambridge, closes at midnight.
Turns out my panicking was unnecessary. Because there are no chemists open late at night, the medical centre gives out the medicine after hours. For free. Sometimes, I love the NHS. Yes, they made me wait 3 hours at home and then 2 hours in a waiting room to see a doctor, but they gave me free medicine just when I really needed it.
So, despite drunkenness, flat tyres and the need for antibiotics, I managed to make it through my first weekend in Cambridge without spending any money.
Only 3 more weekends to go. :/
Let's cover the important things first: how did I manage a good, old, traditional English bender with no money? Well, the first step was that I convinced my friends to drink at home on a Saturday evening instead of going to a pub. I provided the vermouth, my gracious host provided the Hendrick's and the rest is an extremely messy evening of very large martinis made in a red wine glasses with no ice, drinking games and a waterfall of the most filthy language you can possibly imagine coming from my mouth. Except I then dragged all of my friends to the pub because another friend of mine was leaving sunny England for home in the US. Luckily, we were so drunk that we couldn't accurately read a clock and arrived 15 minutes before the pub closed and there wasn't enough time for me to be tempted to buy a G&T. Also, the room was spinning and I wouldn't have been able to find the bar if I had tried.
But how did you go clubbing, I hear you ask. Good question. I should point out that we had arrived at the pub via taxi that my gracious host paid for. He was then pretty damn adamant that we go to a club called Cindies (it's not actually called that, it's called Ballare, and there is also no consensus on how 'Cindies' is actually spelled) and he also offered to pay for my entry 'for my birthday'. My birthday is in October. But the non-buying Gods were smiling on me because when we arrived at the club and my friends discovered that they were trying to charge £7 to entry (a ridiculous sum given how grotty and teenage-filled the club is) we promptly left. For Wetherspoon's.
I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with this Wetherspoon thing, I'm not even sure I completely understand it, but let me explain to you what I think I know.
There are about a gazillion Wetherspoon's all over the UK. Just in Cambridge there are two. They appear to be some sort of pub looking things that serve pub food and alcohol until about 9pm when they clear the tables from the 'dancefloor' and stop serving food. And then they play Rhianna, the place fills with the most diverse range of people I have ever seen in a club and they sell drinks at ridiculously low prices (G&Ts are £1.99!). Most importantly, there is free entry.
So, into Wetherspoons we go. My friends all go to check their coats. This costs £2 so I decide to stash mine in my super cool Strand book bag that I use as a handbag because it fits the entire world inside it and can be washed in the washing machine. Then I pee. Then I find my friends again. They are at the bar. Someone hands me water. I take a big gulp. It's not water. It's G&T. (My hipster friend, who was out on this expedition as well, has this endearing habit of buying a round of drinks every time we walk into a pub or club. Which would be nice if any of us had the stamina to stick around long enough to pay the favour back. But it never happens. And he never ceases to buy the first round.)
This is the point in the night where I had a panic attack about all the people and bolted to a quiet corner. I met some lovely people there and we chatted for the rest of my evening while my friends searched the club frantically for me. They found me eventually and we walked home.
So I was feeling quite please with myself; I had managed an entire night out without spending a penny. Well, I felt pleased with the non-spending part of my behaviour. I think the rest of it had a lot to be desired. Post-drinking binge, however, was a lot tougher.
The first thing I wanted to do when I woke up was drink all of the water in the world. That accomplished, I showered and helped my former partner move. But then I was really hungry. But I was also really damn sleepy and cranky and couldn't be bothered making food. But I couldn't just go out and buy food. Suddenly, not buying for a whole month was the worst idea I had ever had. I had successfully managed to not spend a penny while being the drunkest person on the planet the night before but a tired, sober, hungry Elise was just about ready to buy all the crisps in the world and eat them.
You'll be happy to know that I did no such thing. In fact, I came home and cooked a nice meal with enough left over for lunch tomorrow while simultaneously cooking chickpeas, kidney beans and soya beans that I then froze so that I have protein on hand when I need it.
I was starting to get pretty good at this.
While moving my friend, however, I hit a little bit of a snag. A few months ago I noticed that my car felt a bit funny on the left hand rear side. I suspected it was a deflating tyre but instead of pumping it up I just drove around on it for weeks and weeks and weeks until it eventually punctured. Luckily, I had the hipster handyman in the car with me at the time so he changed it to the spare and I had it replaced eventually.
But today I noticed the same thing while driving again but on the left front side. After a quick physical inspection I confirmed that the tyre was indeed in need of pumping up. Which is a problem in the UK because service stations charge for air. But since the car is technically still owned by both me and my former partner, and since I was helping him move, he was more than happy to cover the 50p for the 4 minutes of air. Spending averted.
But I thought it was all over this afternoon when I realised that I was quite ill and needed antibiotics. After waiting hours for an appointment, off I drive to NHS Out of Hours Urgent Care in Chesterton for my 9.30pm appointment. 2 hours later I'm still in the waiting room not having seen a doctor and I'm starting to freak out because the Boots on Newmarket Road, the only late-night chemist in Cambridge, closes at midnight.
Turns out my panicking was unnecessary. Because there are no chemists open late at night, the medical centre gives out the medicine after hours. For free. Sometimes, I love the NHS. Yes, they made me wait 3 hours at home and then 2 hours in a waiting room to see a doctor, but they gave me free medicine just when I really needed it.
So, despite drunkenness, flat tyres and the need for antibiotics, I managed to make it through my first weekend in Cambridge without spending any money.
Only 3 more weekends to go. :/
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