06 Jul 2026
This month, Ruth reflects on the difference between what things cost and what they’re worth…
Growing up, my Granny Marge had a phrase she deployed whenever she bought something she couldn’t entirely justify. “To hell with poverty,” she’d announce cheerfully, usually while acquiring something entirely unnecessary.
As a child, I thought it sounded wonderfully rebellious. As an adult, I have often found myself wondering where exactly the line sits between financial prudence and Granny Marge’s approach to life.
A few weeks ago, I made a purchase that took far longer to justify than it should have. It wasn’t because I couldn’t afford it, but because I couldn’t quite decide whether it was sensible. The distinction turned out to be more revealing than I expected.
I am acutely aware that this purchase is a luxury rather than a necessity. But in deciding whether it was “worth it” or not, I found I wasn’t really thinking about money. I was thinking about what happens when you’ve spent years treating value and cost as the same thing, only to realise they are not always interchangeable.
Talking about money is tricky.
No matter what you say, somebody will think you’re showing off, somebody else will think you’re complaining when you shouldn’t be and somebody will be quietly wondering how you can afford the thing you’re talking about in the first place.
Fair enough.
Money is emotional. It touches security, opportunity, freedom, anxiety, luck, class, hard work and circumstance all at once. Few subjects reveal the invisible differences between our lives quite so quickly.
Being a woman solely responsible for her own security is both a blessing and a curse. Making impulse purchases or booking a last-minute trip doesn’t come with discussion or negotiation.
I can buy something ridiculous simply because it delights me. But it also means that I carry every bill, every decision and every risk alone. That isn’t to say I have arrived here entirely by myself. I have been fortunate to have the love and support of my family throughout my life, and I know not everybody has that. But day-to-day, the responsibility for keeping the lights
on and the wheels turning rests with me. There is always the knowledge that one significant setback could alter the life I have worked hard to build. So, while I am prone to the odd moment of carefree spending, for most of the last 20 years I have been planning for the future and ensuring I had a safety net for if I got sick or could no longer work. And that was what made me deliberate on this occasion.
I knew I was overthinking when I created the spreadsheet. The purchase itself was hardly life-changing. It wasn’t a house, a car or a round-the-world ticket. It was a membership to a spa and wellness club; a beautiful place of pools, saunas, spa treatments and quiet corners.
And yet I spent weeks debating it. I made calculations. Compared alternatives. Worked out how often I would need to visit to justify the cost. I approached the decision with the sort of rigour usually reserved for far more significant financial commitments.
The difficulty was that the numbers never quite answered the question I was asking. Because the truth is, I wasn’t really trying to establish whether it was worth it. I was trying to establish whether I was allowed to want it. There is a difference.
Somewhere along the way, many of us absorb the idea that money should be spent on sensible things. Practical things. Necessary things. Things that can be easily defended if somebody were to ask us why we bought them.
We become very good at calculating financial costs. Less good, perhaps, at recognising value.
What is the cost of always postponing rest until you’ve earned it? What is it worth to treat joy as a requirement rather than a reward?
As I approach forty, I find myself considering value differently than I did in my twenties.
Back then, money often felt like the scarce resource. Now, increasingly, it is time.
A free afternoon feels more precious than it once did. So does peace of mind. So does having somewhere to go where nobody needs anything from me, where there is no task to complete, no deadline to meet and no particular outcome to achieve.
None of which is to say money doesn’t matter; of course it does. Financial security creates choices, and choices are a privilege. I am deeply grateful for the opportunities and stability that allow me to even contemplate decisions like this. But I’ve come to realise more and more that money is a tool rather than a scorecard. Its purpose is not just to be kept. At least some of it is meant to find its way back into the life that earned it.
The irony is that for weeks I was focused on what the membership would cost, when what I was really trying to understand was what it might give back. I’ve always assumed that protecting the future meant preserving resources for it. I’ve started to understand that it also means nourishing the person who will eventually arrive there.
After all, future me is not an abstract concept. She is simply me, a few years from now, with a few more grey hairs and, despite my best efforts, a lot more wrinkles. And she will benefit from savings and sensible decisions, certainly. But she will also benefit from good health, strong friendships, creative fulfilment, moments of rest and a life that feels rich in ways that have nothing to do with money.
As I pressed send on the membership application, I could almost hear Granny Marge’s voice.
“To hell with poverty.”
For most of my life, I thought she was talking about money. Now, I wonder if she was really talking about life.
