Remembering Christmas In Debt
When the guy in the shop told me he would have to destroy my credit card I realised I was in trouble. At that moment, however, my embarrassment overtook my common sense and I did something really stupid.
"In that case I insist you cut up the card in my presence, "I said, adopting the pompous tone of a perfectly solvent customer who has simply fallen victim to a bureaucratic blunder, "and I'll pay for these items in cash."
The shop assistant was fine with all of that. He produced a pair of scissors and cut my card into four ragged oblongs. He then took my last remaining wad of cash, gave me a receipt and even bagged my shopping for me.
And what were these items? As I recall, one was a brass imitation miner's lamp and the other was a woolly jumper with comedy sheep sewn on the front. This was Cardiff, after all.
Cardiff 1987, just five days before Christmas. I was in one of those souvenir shops in the city centre, picking up last-minute presents before catching the train back to Glasgow. I had survived my first term at University College but three months of socialising had taken a toll on my finances. My Access card had a credit limit of £250, but I had already exceeded that by, oh, £250 and had responded to the threatening letters with an ill-considered 'ignore-them-and-hope-they-go-away' strategy.
One check call in that souvenir shop had left me cardless and cashless. This was a problem because I hadn't yet bought my train ticket home. All I could do was trudge back to my little bedsit. My new student buddies had all left town so there was only one thing left for me to do: I phoned my Dad and asked him to bail me out. I didn't admit the scale of my debts. I just asked him for the price of a train ticket. He was happy to help and put some money in the post that very afternoon.
Meanwhile, all I could do was wait and, as the temperatures in South Wales plummeted below zero, I began to worry about the electricity meter. It was one of those greedy coin-operated jobs with an insatiable appetite for fifty pence pieces.
I had fed it recently, but couldn't be sure how long the power would last. I turned off all my lights and my portable black & white telly. I switched on my battery-operated transistor radio and one bar of my electric fire.
For food I had one big bag of dried pasta and a block of butter. Buttered pasta became my breakfast, lunch and supper for the next two days. The programmes on ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ Radio Wales were full of festive joy. There was talk of mince pies and mulled wine. I felt sick.
On the third morning the postman delivered my Dad's letter and it was stuffed with exactly the right amount of cash for my train ticket. The exact amount. So my nine hour train journey from Cardiff to Glasgow was achieved without the aid of snacks or refreshments. At one point in the journey I entertained the notion of stealing a wee boy's Caramac bar.
And what did I learn from this experience? Well, that tatty souvenirs are never worth the money and that turkey dinners taste a lot better after a period of enforced pasta eating.
Oh...and there's that whole debt business. Not good. In case you were wondering.
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