My thrift knows no bounds

This week I’m writing about thrift, but it does takes me a while to get to the point because first I wanted to tell you the story of a British-Canadian woman called Barbara Amiel, who featured in a Vogue magazine article in 2002. The writer was given a grand tour of Ms Amiel’s lavish Kensington townhouse, including her vast collection of designer bags, shoes, furs and gowns. “My extravagance knows no bounds,” Barbara Amiel famously said, thereby unwittingly playing a role in her husband’s undoing. Her husband was – and is – the media mogul Conrad Black.

Barbara Amiel had led a very colourful life, but seemed finally to have found what she was looking for in Conrad Black, her fourth husband. However, both questions and eyebrows were being raised over how they were managing to pay for their lavish lifestyle, which included the usual billionaire trappings of designer gear, private jets, spectacular parties and properties around the world. Eventually, it all came tumbling down and in 2007 he was found guilty of fraud and sent to jail.

Inexplicably, Conrad Black still holds the title of Lord Black of Crossharbour [named after a London metro station, although personally I’d choose to be Lady Maida Vale, which has a lovely ring to it] despite having served time in an American prison [Conrad, not me]. He rather cunningly wrote a book marvelling at the glory that is Donald Trump, who naturally had no choice but to pardon him. The Canadian government had given Husband Number Four the Order of Canada in 1990 to honour a lifetime of achievement, but seems to have thought better of it and asked him to give it back in 2014. However, we are obviously more enlightened in Britain and ready to rehabilitate a convicted criminal by restoring him to his rightful place in government.

Really, this is all very fascinating and could and should be the plot of a racy page-turning novel, but I have been side-tracked by Barbara Amiel’s wardrobe when what I really planned to talk about was thrift. I have to point out that she and I have nothing in common whatsoever except that we were both born in England, lived in Canada and married a Canadian – although I did stop at one – and I am definitely not extravagant. If anything it might be fair to say that “my thrift knows no bounds”, but that reads like a mean little phrase and I definitely wouldn’t want that on my headstone.

Nevertheless, I have a great admiration for thrift, although it does sound like a throwback to some dusty, far-off time of deprivation. Word War II maybe, when people stored their old elastic bands around a pencil, used newspaper for toilet roll and fed their potato peelings to the local pig. You’ll be pleased to learn that I don’t do any of those things (yet), but I do hate waste. Where other people see a container of leftover mashed potatoes cluttering up the fridge, I see a key ingredient for fish cakes. Old crusts hanging about in the bread bin? Perfect for croutons or breadcrumbs. It’s a bit of an obsession.

And then there’s our TV, which is many years old, the picture isn’t wonderful and the on/off switch is pretty dodgy, but it’s doing its best and I refuse to give up on it despite much ridicule from my family. It still works and I’d hate to think that someone was going give up on me just because I didn’t function quite as well as I used to. With each passing year I see the benefit of preserving and cherishing old things. Not that I have a vested interest.

The only problem I can see with thrift is that it needs rebranding. And the environmental movement has done it for me. I am now an Ecowarrior. We can’t possibly get rid of the TV I say, we need to save it from landfill. But we all have our weaknesses and I have to confess to a very expensive Balsamic Vinegar habit. In fact, while others stockpile toilet paper in times of national emergency, I am buying up all the bottles of Balsamic Vinegar I can find. Barbara Amiel would understand.