What I understand about money could be scratched on the edge of a 2p piece. With a stick. As the self-assessment deadline rolls towards me like a driverless logging truck of administrative horror along the icy motorway of financial woe, I have been reminded once again just how poor my financial education has been.
I have never met, let alone talked to, a financial advisor. I don’t really understand how mortgages work. I don’t have a pension. I’m terrified of my tax return. I don’t know what other women doing comparable jobs earn. I didn’t claim statutory maternity pay because, as a freelancer, I did not have any maternity leave. Until a few months ago, my mobile phone contract was still in my ex-boyfriend’s name and coming out of his account despite the fact that we broke up more than 10 years ago and are both now married to other people (I was paying him back for it, but still). Two days before my 39th birthday I opened something called a lifetime Isa just because my friend Yasmin happened to tell me I should while I was peeling some potatoes, but I haven’t managed to transfer any money into it because the website turns my brain into spat-out toothpaste.
