From riches to rags – Life as the nouveau poor…

THE banks ... where do I start? Believe it or not, up until recently I thought they had treated us quite fairly, but I was just being naive.

When we first lost our businesses very early on in the recession, the mortgage was, our biggest concern. Where were we going to get €2,200 every month? We could manage it for a short period, but then what?

We had remortgaged our house to invest in my business which we had opened just before the Celtic Tiger evaporated. Our original mortgage wasn’t too high and our house was worth three times more than we owed, so we thought we were safe. Our timing was horrendous.

I had put my heart and soul into setting up a high-end business which I felt I could run with my eyes closed. I had a lovely home, a husband who was doing well in business, and three beautiful girls. Nothing could have prepared me for what was ahead. We went under fast and furious, as the business was so high-end, unestablished and I had to borrow again to keep afloat.

My girls were always a priority. I had an excellent live-in minder who was devoted to them. I would not leave the house until I knew all the meals were prepared, the fridge was full and at least two nice outfits were left out. I had a great cleaner three times a week and made sure my childminder had plenty of cash to do things with the kids.

The minute I came home, I just wanted to be with them, no cleaning or cooking, no phone calls, just them and me.

I was never a socialite, even though having money made life so much easier. If I had a domestic crisis, I would just throw money at it.

While we had plenty, in reality my childminder was in a better financial position. She had diligently saved every cent I paid her, bought her house for cash and had a nice nest-egg to return home to her country with. And good luck to her. She worked hard and minded my precious cargo while I was busy building up debts.

After a year of banging my head against a brick wall and two nasty visits from the sheriff, I turned the key in the door and knew it was all over. I am a fighter but with the stuffing knocked out me, I knew this was much bigger than me and I threw the towel in.

It was the first time in my life I had ever given up and I felt a huge sense of loss. I passed a pub and contemplated going in.

But I couldn’t. You see I had been down that road before and drank heavily whenever I got stressed. Only, of course, when the kids were in bed, the house was shining and everything was organised for the next day.

Thankfully, with the support of my wonderful husband, who was not prepared to let me destroy our beautiful family, I stopped drinking. So as I stood outside the pub, I thought of him, all I had put him through, and his unconditional love that got me through. I couldn’t go in. He deserved more than that. Instead I went home and baked a cake. I let my childminder and cleaning lady go, and sat down and ruthlessly cut all my household costs.

I became obsessed with cutting costs and cut my yearly expenditure from €40,000 per year (excluding mortgage) to €10,000. I got a meter installed for the gas and the electric, cut life, medical and household insurance. I stopped buying clothes, presents, eating out, and watched every cent like a hawk.

The girls were ecstatic to have me all to themselves and they were my only joy. I baked, cooked, cleaned, gardened, painted. I had always enjoyed all these tasks, but was so busy trying to make money I always had to pay someone to do them. It was a good feeling to be running my family home and having my children all to myself.

But I was a nervous wreck. I jumped every time the phone rang or the doorbell rang ... was it the sheriff? Was it a debt collector, or the supplier from England who had warned me to sleep with the lights on?

I was always glad when it was the children’s bedtime and I would crawl into bed with them and do mind-over-matter to switch my brain off.

I dreaded waking up in the morning and hated when my husband left the house. You see he was as always my rock, my bodyguard and my doorman. “Don’t answer the door,” he would say. “Switch off your phone and don’t worry. I will sort it all out.”

‘How?” I used to think. “Are we going to win the fecking lotto?” It would actually have to be the Euro Millions to get us out of this mess.

Then somehow I would go back into domestic goddess mode, bake, make real stock and talk endlessly to anyone who would listen about how to make the best shepherd’s pie you’ve ever tasted for under a fiver.

“How am going to do this every day?” I wondered. My brain was numbed. I couldn’t read a paper, listen to the news, or contemplate that things could get worse.

But they did ....