Rosie Millard: Thrifty Living

It's going to be an interesting conversation with the bank manager. "Hello, Anne. The dog has eaten my wallet. Or, more pertinently, he has eaten my Mastercard, my cashpoint card, and a £20 note." So my current stash of cash, plus the means to get any more, are now in the enthusiastic maw of a Border Terrier. One thinks that in the sanctuary of a lovely seaside house in Suffolk, which we have borrowed from friends, one might be able to relax about money, a little. Anyway, it's not as if I've actually been using my wallet.

There is nothing like a British summer holiday for saving money. No shopping, for a start, thanks to the monsoon-style weather, which has prohibited any credit-card exercising promenades. "All we've sold this season are wellies," sighed the manageress of the shoe shop in Southwold when I waded in to buy a pair for one of the Juniors. As they only cost £7, I could see her point. After this summer's washout, she will be left with mountains of £40 Croc sandals.

We have been the model of family thrift, bringing large amounts of food up from our local butcher and eating in. Also, because Southwold is one of those deliberately under-developed places which presents the phrase "holiday resort" in a proactive, not reactive light, we have had to resort to our own devices. Sans shops, this has meant long walks with the dog, blackberry picking, jam making, various sorties with buckets and spades, and, of course, Monopoly.

Playing Monopoly with an assembly of people under 10 is quite interesting, because children have no notion of the theory of relative value on which the entire game hinges. They will quite happily trade Park Lane for Pall Mall, consider £70 a lot of money, and think that the Water Works is worth buying.

They are also unaware of how spending money can snowball out of control. One moment you are the proud possessor of two lovely pink £500 notes. The next, you aren't. Just by rolling a couple of dice. Yes, children, this is life itself.

As the proud owner of Bond Street, which I had furnished with one house, I charged my son Gabriel (7) a reasonable £150 when he landed on it. Two rounds later, my portfolio had expanded to three houses on the site. He was unfortunate enough to land on it again. "That will be £1,000," I said sweetly. "Oh, crap," he said. "But these rents go up so fast!" Tell me about it, my foul-mouthed cherub.

When the game had fixed him and he was forced to sell all his houses and, one by one, turn all his proudly acquired Title Deeds to their shamefully scarlet Mortgage side, Gabriel was equally dismayed to find how little profit one makes when you are forced to flog off your assets.

You need assets. But you also need cash, so it is crucial not to over-extend yourself, buying everything you can. Firstly, there is no assurance anyone will land on you. Second, with no money you will be stuffed when you land on Bond Street with three houses. In the course of all this fun, I began to see Monopoly as a palimpsest for my financial history. In the chaotic array of my bank statements there is the glimmer of a ghostly board game, in which Income Tax and Super Tax (lets call it VAT) rear their unavoidable heads on a regular basis, and every so often, my fellow players give me £10 for a birthday. There is Chance, and luck, and over-extended properties, and very occasionally, Free Parking. Above all, there is the slim line-up of your hard-earned Title Deeds (let's call this your career), which must, along with the small bundle of notes representing your Cash Flow, be set hard against the terrifying possibility of landing on Mayfair with a hotel (in life, this is whatever makes your finances tremble the most).

Tomorrow we leave the damp delights of Suffolk to return home. As luck would have it, in our case this is also in Monopoly since we live at the Angel, Islington. Naturally it is my favourite stop on the board.

Compare and save on money, insurance and energy deals at Independent Compare