So here I am, it’s 5th June and I’m alone in my house. I’m sat here with an expression of fear, shock and panic. Like witnessing a car crash, I’m appalled but yet I can’t stop staring. But what is it that distresses me so much? A horror film? A TV show? Some freaky documentary? I wish! Instead I’m sat in front of an opened bank statement with a pile towering sky high of unopened and equally evil ones.

I am literally seeing red. And how did all this mess start? How does it always start? Girl goes to Uni, girl parties her way into Uni debt, gets job, gets paid, gets lots of lovely money, then girl has a nice full wardrobe. Ok, I may have a small shopping addiction, but it’s not that bad. And actually, I was strutting along quite nicely, but thanks to the vile R word I am no longer an affluent young professional. I still thankfully have a job, but only because I agreed to take a rather substantial pay cut and bonus freeze. I say ‘agreed’, but it was more ‘begrudgingly accepted along with wailing, tears and maybe even a bit of feet stomping’. But I decided less money was better than none. Only I hadn’t realised that having less money was the equivalent of having none, as I am a bank statement hoarder.

Yes they drop through the post, and I know I’ve got them, but to keep them all nice and safe I drop them in the drawer. So how did they get out of the draw and onto my tear stained silk clad lap? Well it all started with a Reiss dress and a declined credit card, then a declined debit card and a declined ‘emergency only’ card. So fast-forward one embarrassing high-street shopping incident, and here I am.

Ok, so not having a dress isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it’s pretty scary stuff. Realising actually you can’t live like you did yesterday and that all those things you took for granted are actually luxuries. I may as well be singing a Smiths song as I write this. Don’t let my current mood put you off; I am usually an upbeat happy-go-lucky kind of girl. I am very lucky in fact, but I work hard too (and socialise pretty hard as well). I have worked my way up the corporate ladder and am now a senior account manager at a media company. Not bad going for a 27 year old, I think you’ll agree. I live with two housemates one is a big city whiz, and the other a modern day slave a.k.a. fashion intern. We live in the oh-so-cool Shoreditch and as for men? Ha, don’t make me laugh; I could fill a book on just my misadventures in love.

So now you know me, and my plight. Today the mission begins. Today is the day Ellie Bly learns to economise, or as I prefer to call it chiconomise (sounds prettier).