Seven days as a stingy git

Find out how Harvey Jones got on when he spent a week on a very strict budget!

A new poll from Reader’s Digest has revealed that, overall, we are a country dangerously close to stingy status - and we can’t just blame it all on the credit crunch, price increases at the petrol pumps and VAT rises.

In fact, six in ten of 1,400 poll respondents think Britons are meaner than ever before - with a third scoring their own generosity as five or less out of ten.

The most miserly age-group is the under-30s, with fewer than four in ten of this age group donating to charity once a month or more. And more than one in ten under-30s admit to never leaving a tip in restaurants.

I have to admit, in my younger years, I too was a bit stingy. I was the last to buy a round in the pub, I was always pestering friends to return that 50p they borrowed months before, and, um, I had no girlfriend (they're sooo expensive).

After belatedly realising that this made me a friendless, unlovely object of derision, I mended my penny-pinching ways, and transformed myself into the generous, fully-rounded character I am today.

But the stinginess gene still lurks deep inside me, and so I decided to liberate it for one week only. Money has been flying out of my bank account at all angles in recent weeks, and I want to put a stop to it.

Sunday

The truly stingy know where every penny goes, so I decide to write all my spending down. Rather than buy a pricey notebook to jot down my spending, I cut up a single piece of printer paper and stapled it together, instantly saving around 99p.

Then I do something I've wanted to do for ages, and rummage through the kitchen cupboards to see how many meals I can make from stuff we've already got in.

I quickly assemble a harvest festival of onions, garlic, tinned green beans, rice, pasta, Dolmio, instant mash, bread mix, packet soups, ready stuffing mixes, custard powder and a bunch of bananas ... just add milk, and I reckon I can feed my small family for a week.

We typically spend around £100 a week at the supermarket, or £200 if my girlfriend Ingrid goes instead. Not this week!

After a breakfast of toasted cheese and slightly mouldy pickle, Ingrid and our five-year-old daughter Molly head out for a walk across the local fields. "Fresh air is still free!" I cheerfully tell them.

Molly complains about a tummy ache. "Nothing that a lunch of mash, chestnut stuffing, and red cabbage won't cure," I jauntily reply.

Monday

Fresh focaccia for breakfast! I get up an hour early to make free fresh bread from an old bread mix I never got round to using. But it takes me two hours, so we have a glum breakfast of leftover Cheerios and crispbread, which means Ingrid is in a bad mood even before I tell her that in the spirit of this article, she has to walk to work.

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"It's barely a mile, it's only raining slightly, you can drop off Molly on the way, and it will save, ooh... 50p on petrol, and the planet. Oh, and don't forget to pick up a carton of milk on the way back." She leaves without a word. I hear our car skid out of the driveway.

If Ingrid is burning money on petrol, I have to compensate, so I switch off the lights and heating, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle in front of my PC to work. Lunch is leftover mash, stuffing and red cabbage. There seems to be a lot of it.

Still, there is focaccia and a half-eaten jar of stony black olives for tea, and I haven't spent a single penny yet.

Tuesday

I'm already running low on breakfast ideas, so I'm delighted to find a packet of bacon in the fridge. I wonder why I didn't notice it on Sunday. Ingrid says I must have missed it, and reaches for the frying pan.

When they've gone, I log onto my bank account to scrutinise my direct debits and standing orders. Disappointingly, there isn't much to cut. I've already ditched my gym and magazine subscription, dropped one of my charities and switched my mobile to pay-as-you-go. Maybe my stingy instincts are in better shape than I thought.

Wednesday

I come down to breakfast to discover some fresh bread, pastries, jam, yoghurt and fruit that I also didn't notice on Sunday. Ingrid and Molly tuck in, while I stick to my principles, and feast on cheese biscuits and tinned tuna.

After breakfast, I download Skype, and send an e-mail encouraging Ingrid's mother in Norway to do the same, so they can talk for free over the internet. I rub my hands at the thought of the money that will save. It stopped my hands from icing up.

We have a free and happy evening playing dominoes and reading children's books, while I follow Ingrid about the house switching off lights. Apart from a bit of electricity, I still haven't spent a penny all week! But then, I haven't left the house either, except to saw up some leftover planks to feed into the fire.

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Thursday

Ingrid drives home from work brazenly clutching a brace of Tesco bags, and tortures me by ripping up a warm chicken fresh from the rotisserie and sharing it with Molly. I virtuously slurp a packet of tomato soup, which judging by the 27p price tag, I bought when John Major was still in power.

"I hope you are getting paid well for this stunt," Ingrid says, guzzling the chicken. But she treats me with new respect after I reveal the affordable delights of bananas and custard.

Friday

By working at home, I can control my expenses. No commuting. No boozy and expensive lunches. No shops. No suits or posh shoes. I can claim part of my broadband rental and telephone calls as a business expense.

But I have to leave the house some time. Tonight is the real challenge: I've been invited down the pub by some former colleagues. Dusting down my old skills, I skilfully duck the first three rounds, but my strategy backfires when three latecomers join our group just as I'm standing at the bar, and I end up having to buy a round for seven. I finally have something to write in my spending log.

I spend the rest of the evening trying to claw back my losses, and stagger the five miles home very drunk. No train or taxi for me.

Saturday

By the time I crawl out of bed, Ingrid and Molly are spending every penny I saved this week down the shops. I take one look at my tinned anchovy and mouldy pickle breakfast, and crawl back into bed feeling queasy. It's cheap in bed, I decide to spend the final day of my week there.

So what have I learned? That being stingy is still in my nature. In a perverse way, I enjoyed scrimping and saving.

I've also learned that being stingy is a lot easier if you lock yourself indoors and don't meet anybody, or if you do want a social life, and who doesn't, avoid the pub. A tramp across the fields can be just as much fun.

If money is a struggle, you have to rein in your spending on every possible front - for example, finding a more competitive mortgage, switching to cheaper car insurance and home insurance, finding a new utility supplier, or a more competitive credit card.

Oh, and I've learned one more thing. Girlfriends are still sooo expensive.

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This is a classic article that has been updated for 2011.

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