Letters to an Imaginary Grandson (IV)

If there's one story that we all buy into, one narrative on which we can all concur, it's that certain pieces of paper possess an intrinsic value; pieces of paper that can be exchanged for goods or services. Or converted into zeros and ones that do the same thing. Money. We all agree what a 100-złoty note is worth in terms of what can be bought with one, and that a 200-złoty note is worth exactly twice as a 100-złoty note. We all agree that is better to have money than not to have it, and that it's worth having a lot of it. Money is a proxy for status; what it buys signals your supposed place in the status hierarchy. Money, then, is serious.

As a child, an inordinate amount of the pocket money that my parents would give me each week would get spent on confectionary. All forms of sweets and chocolates, ice lollies, bubble gum and fizzy drinks. The result (though I was too young to link cause and effect) was an endless succession of trips to the dentist for fillings and extractions. Painful. This ended as soon as I stopped wasting money on Fruit Gums, Mars Bars, Cadbury Dairy Milk, Spangles, Crunchies, Flakes etc. Spending thruppence or sixpence at the sweet shop several times a week was a bad thing, then. 

Pocket money spent on toys was money better spent. On Facebook, I follow many accounts for diecast collectors and builders of plastic models. (Not that I'd spend money on buying these today; merely looking at photos gives me a satisfying pang of nostalgia.) The plastic kits taught me some (not many) craft skills; as a child, I was gluing together a plaything rather than constructing a historically accurate model. Still, I learnt much about Spitfires and Lancasters.

Childhood pocket money was spent as it was spent; there was little sense in hoarding it in a piggy bank as I never had any ambition to buy anything bigger than a Series 6 Airfix Kit or a large Dinky or Corgi toy.

Real money started for me in 1974 with my summer-holiday job as a 16-year old, working in the canteen at Beecham's (which later merged to become Beecham Smith Kline and is now Glaxo Smith Kline). The job paid £18 a week (or £170 in 2025 money). With inflation, which was 16.0% in 1974 and 24.2% in 1975, it made little sense to save. Money from this and all subsequent holiday jobs in warehouses up and down the Great West Road and industrial estates in Hanwell or Perivale was all spent on going out and on clothes. While still living with my parents, I was financially independent in that I never had to ask them for money – that was important for me. 

I was a student at that golden time when the government covered your tuition fees and paid you a student grant. In my first year at Warwick University, I actually managed to save some money from my grant and from Christmas, Easter and summer-holiday jobs. My post-grad studies at City University, London was funded by my parents; there was no student grant and my holidays were spent on internships. But I landed a job as soon as I'd finished, and after a year of earning a regular salary, my parents convinced me to do a really smart thing.

Buy a house.

The year was 1982, and house prices were still within reach of someone who'd just started work. I was earning £5,700 a year, the house cost £28,500; my parents chipped in the 10% deposit. [In today's money, that salary was £20,260, the house was £101,304 – a five-fold multiple.] Paying the mortgage was tough in the first years. Getting married helped. But essentially, buying a house as soon as I possibly could was a really smart move. Initially, my friends laughed at me: "How's the mortgage, Mike?" Soon enough, the London house-price boom kicked off. Within three years of buying my house, similar mid-terrace properties were going for £50,000-£55,000. Today? Around £500,000.

Subsequent investments in property have all worked out well for me. And they worked out well historically. Many people who lost real estate in Poland because of WW2 and communism got them back after 1989, whilst money tied up in stocks and shares or in bank deposits were wiped out by war or rendered worthless by inflation.

It must be stressful being retired and not having a place of your own, having to find the monthly rent or service charge on a flat from a pension. Having freehold ownership of your own place is a huge financial comfort in old age, peace of mind. Even a shed on a piece of land that belongs to you, out in the sticks, is better than renting.

This time last year:
Poland's sleeper-train services – summer timetable

This time two years ago:
Conscience, consciousness and sensitivity

This time three years ago:
Little annoyances and optimising one's life

This time four years ago:
The 13th thirteenth

This time five years ago:

Ghastly June day in London

This time six years ago:
Perfect weather week in Warsaw

This time seven years ago:
Further progress is unimaginable

This time eight years ago:
Baletowa reopens as rail works move on

This time nine years ago:
Polish doctors in UK offer new healthcare model

This time 14 years ago:
The closure of the Góra Kalwaria-Pilawa railway link

This time 16 years ago:
My blazing bus pic gets on front page of Gazeta Stołeczna

This time 17 years ago:
Storm clouds rising