Money gets a bum rap. It has become a byword for flash, although the whole point of having serious cash is that you don’t need to show it off. Money makes itself irrelevant. It liberates its owners from worrying about it. Imagine shopping without ever having to read a price tag. Suddenly, the decision whether to buy can be made solely on the basis of whether you like it, whether it is aesthetically pleasing, does its job efficiently, or simply gives you pleasure. What could be more pure and philosophically gratifying than that? Not having any money — that’s when things get ugly.
I bought a new car the other day. I wanted a silver Citroën DS, one of those sleek, low-slung continental numbers with the sexy air suspension. But my husband said the boot was too small, among other boring impracticalities such as “the parts cost a fortune” and “the kids will trash it”. So I now drive a black Golf. It is practical, reliable and boring, and I can never find it because there are always at least two others parked on any street. It was a decision made on the basis of money — or the lack of it — and every time I turn on the ignition, a part of my soul shrivels.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with wanting value for money. But value isn’t just about cost — it’s about the feeling something gives you when you use it. And expensive things are usually better value than cheap things. Not having money makes price the most important factor in any decision, and this extinguishes any joy in the buying or using process. Yes, that offer of three pairs of boy pants for £10 from a chain store is fine, but when you pull them on, do they give you any frisson of delight? Probably not. And that’s before the elastic has gone funny in the wash.
We live in a bargain-obsessed era. Discount shops sell T-shirts for a few pounds, supermarkets sell men’s suits for fifty quid. And I suppose it’s a very modern kind of democracy when you can get so-called catwalk looks for a fraction of their catwalk price. But there is a price to be paid for cheap goods, not least the possibility that it’s made by a little Bangladeshi girl who earns about 2p a week. Which, given the cheap fabrics, slightly weird colours and fakery inherent in the high-street rip-off, all adds up to a pretty bad look, wouldn’t you agree? (Perhaps the less said about the gem business the better, but I am optimistic that fairtrade, organic diamonds will be available soon at my favourite Bond Street jeweller’s.)
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Having more money would mean being able to choose not to buy things made by people who have been exploited. So far, the holiest products tend to be the more expensive ones. Prosperity gives you the means to buy with a clear conscience, paying skilled people a fair wage to make things properly, with integrity and love. It would mean buying things that make me feel better not only about myself but about the world. Good old money, see: it’s a force for good.
The cheapness of cheap things only encourages you to buy things that you don’t really want — I call it pound-store madness. Cheap is a false economy. The result of discount shopping is that we all now have wardrobes full of tat. One hundred Primark jackets will never add up to one beautiful Lanvin coat. This is why I dream of money: so I can buy not more, but better. And, frankly, what’s not to like about that?