Rummaging around in my computer for other musings of mine on the topic has drawn up only a few references; and two of them, the most expansive on the theme, were articles I never got around to finishing.

Basically, I've avoided writing about money in the same way that I've avoided dealing with it in my life over the past few years. And recently, it began to catch up with me. Red bills, plastic cards that won't work anymore, "regretful" letters from banks. Hardly a day went by without another official envelope dropping through the door with more bad news.

When I first moved to London to study and write, I misjudged completely my employment prospects, and ended up on the dole. Living on the dole in Tory Britain is a very uncomfortable experience, for you get a whole bundle of value judgments dumped on you with every cheque. In Ireland, I felt it was something that I deserved, having paid enough in income tax when I was working. In England, I felt very uncomfortable, even before the current "Jobseeker's Allowance" rigime. The Thatcher hatred of the "nanny" state is palpable. Perhaps being Irish I felt it more keenly. Perhaps it was just being me.

In Ireland, I had been an actor; regular periods of unemployment were part of the life. "Resting", a euphemism much loathed in the profession, was the last thing one did while unemployed; there were always auditions and interviews to be done. As a jobbing actor, money seemed somehow secondary in importance to self-expression, to creativity.

I became used to a curious financial ebb and flow, which felt out of my control, and in the lap of the gods. I remember one morning getting a tax bill for #1,200 sterling, and I had nothing saved; later that day, my agent rang and told me that I had just got an American TV ad, paying #1,400 sterling. I felt as if someone or something was minding me. Whether or not I was careful with money didn't seem to matter; more often than not, something turned up in the nick of time, and if it didn't, then I worked as a waiter.

excruciatingly difficult

A few weeks ago, back to the wall, I was forced to sit down and work out a budget. For the first time since my pocket money days, I had to work out what I had to live on for each week over the next six months.

It is one of the most excruciatingly difficult things that I've ever done; for I had no real idea at the beginning of the exercise whether I would have any money to actually feed myself after the monthly bills for phone, council tax, electricity, gas, rent and debt repayment were met. I've only the income from a part-time job at the moment; the rest of the time I'm spending starting up a new business, which, although its prospects are excellent, isn't paying me properly yet.

I had got myself into this most recent mess because a lucrative contract I had been expecting to start around now is not now starting until September. The trouble is, I had been living as if I had already started it. Not extravagantly - I'm not an extravagant person (except on the telephone) - just blindly. When the bad news about the job came, I realised there was no way out of the mess except to work out a sensible plan of repayment and moderation. To look at what my limits were, and to work within them. Bleuch.

What was most difficult about this process was having to face my unconscious assumptions about money, and the huge fear I had about being poor and living alone. There's a subtle sense of not being worth much, when I'm not worth much.

It's strange, but I do buy into the concept of being a "man of substance"; there's a voice inside me which tells me I'm not much of a catch if I'm poor, that I'm going to remain single as long as my bank balance is in the red. It has not escaped me that I've chosen occupations guaranteed to keep me that way ever since I left school. If I buy into that belief system, is it any wonder that I'm single? And to stop being single, do I change my assumptions about self-worth, or my bank balance?

minor victory

In the meantime, however, I'm making packed lunches, and bizarrely enough enjoying both the making and the eating of them. I'm cooking every night at home, instead of having takeaways. I'm switching things off at night. The first bill came through the door the other day with a distinct improvement over the previous month; my care is paying off. It felt like a minor victory of sorts. Although I don't have much earmarked for entertainment, there is something; and I will certainly enjoy spending it.

As I finish this, having slept a few hours and gotten up early to mugs of strong filter coffee (my one remaining luxury), the postman came, and instead of obnoxious letters, there were birthday cards. This unworldly Piscean notches up another year of experience.