The budget starts next week

If I was sad and desperate enough, I would've worked out that it is a mere 13 hours and 44 minutes until my wages are paid into my bank account. But of course, who has the time to find that out?

Thing is, all that talk of budgeting is going to have to take a back seat as I have a rather hectic weekend planned, starting today. I left home this morning laden with two huge overnight bags and I won't see my own bed again until Monday.

This evening I am round at Doormouse's for an evening of wine, Will and Grace, and if he has his way, a crash course in taking calls on the chat line.

Then after work tomorrow, Snow and I are meeting up with Saskia and we're staying at her plush new Highgate flat for the whole weekend. Saskia's Devoted Hubby was due to be away for the weekend and so we were going to have a three-day marathon of angel cakes, fizzy pop and chick flick/Sex and the City DVDs. The Devoted Hubby is now not going away - which me and Snow are happy about coz he's lovable (Saskia will hate that I said that) - but I have a sneaking suspicion she might banish him to their bedroom for the whole three days surfing the net and staying out of our way.

On Sunday evening, I am celebrating the fact that I have Monday off by going drinking and dancing with Snow in East London. We don't know yet where we're going, possibly Herbal, but we're going to do it in style.

I just hope I can find a place to leave all my stuff, coz no one wants to go dancing with two bags full of clothes, toiletries and a hairdryer!

Bad spending

Had me a little delivery waiting on the mat when I got home last night: a statement from Barclays Bank. Now, my rule of thumb is never, ever to look at my bank balance. Why would I want to put myself through the pain? But pay day is still three days away and I wanted to know whether I had any funds available.

I put off opening it for as long as I could. I washed some clothes; I made a couple of overdue phone calls; I even ventured into the lounge to talk to Ole Misery Guts. By about 9pm I couldn't put the inevitable off any longer and so I retired to my boudoir to open up the terror package.

I knew before I looked at it that I'd spent quite a lot this month - suits, Clinique skin care items and trips to the cinema don't pay for themselves - but I hadn't realised how much I'd spent. The total monthly outgoings were roughly £300 more than the incomings. That in itself might be construed as a problem, but this month was the first month in three years where I didn't have to pay off my car loan, which used to be about £350 a month. So having spent that instead of saving it, I'd actually blown at least £650 that I could've used to save for my own place.

It's fine, I told myself. I'll budget like crazy this week. There'll be homemade sandwiches every day in place of the daily visit to Pret. I can cope with that. And when my salary pops into my bank on Friday (and Mr Barclay breathes a sigh of relief), I can spend wisely and get all the Christmas presents I need to get while I have the money.

Thing is, the discovery of yet another month's overspend is rather depressing and I won't stop thinking about it until Friday. And I know what's going to make it all go away: some new Dunlops. And another bottle of Hermes aftershave. And Jamiroquai's greatest hits. And something luxurious from the Hotel Chocolat...

...Oh wait, this is where the problem lies, isn't it?