Why I like money
And I'm not ashamed to say it
You’ll forgive me if I’m not out of my mind with excitement over International Women’s Day. It’s just that I think it’s an empty guff of meaninglessness coopted by assorted commercial endeavours in need of a wafer thin excuse for self promotion, but - mostly? It’s because I’ve been asked too many times in the past to work for free on its account.
“Come and speak on our panel of bad ass women!” they’ll say. “We’ll only need you for four hours, plus travel time, so that’s probably six hours, all in all, time you could actually be using, earning money, although of course we won’t be paying you, there’s no fee, but that’s OK because IT’S ALL FOR INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY.”
Awkward pause when I don’t jump at the chance, followed by an escalation of emotional manipulation.
“And we know how important inspiring the next generation of girls is to you, Polly.”
Now, this is weird, because I’ve never said inspiring the next generation of girls is important to me - it’s not - and anyway, given that my career path - which was entirely dependent on me getting started in the mid/ late 90s, back when printed magazines were a raging going concern - is pretty much closed off to them now anyway, what use would I be?
But it’s also deeply ironic. Because the only bit of genuinely good advice I’ve got for them - for the next generation of girls, or for any woman - is this: “Don’t work for free”.
Which is not a sentiment I’d be prepared to articulate - while actually working for free.
It amazes me how many people ask me to work for them, for free. Speak at their events, moderate their panels, do lunchtime talks for their staff, at which, presumably, I’d be the only one in the room who wasn't getting paid for her time - and pretty much always on the basis it will be helping other women.
Oh, though alternatively:
“The value is in the profile,” some chancer explained to me once, after I’d had the audacity to ask how much they’d be paying me to come and speak, at an Intimate Breakfast at their private members’ club.
“Cool, cool; I’ll just check that my mortgage provider takes payment in profile - and get back to you,” I told them. We never spoke again. They were definitely miffed.
People often are miffed by my audacity. Routinely taken aback when confronted by a woman who doesn’t mind asking for money in return for her work. I see it here from time to time. Less so lately, though I did spot one of those surprised and annoyed messages from someone about how dare writers ensnare readers with a few free paragraphs, then whack a paywall in, halfway down, just when it was getting interesting? Which I always find odd. If someone’s work is so compelling to you, you get cross when you can’t read all of it, surely just pay for the rest, and if you can’t afford to, accept that some things are beyond your means. Like the shoes you want, but can’t afford.
Expect that I’m being disingenuous. I know we’ve been encouraged by years and years of free access to journalism, to believe writing is not something for which we should pay, ever. It isn’t of value, not like that.
I should very much like to be part of the movement which changes this back again.
But then: I’ve always needed money, always needed to make money - and, for some reason, which I’ll come back to in a bit, never had any problem being very clear about that. I started my adult life off, student-level broke (because I was: a student, and broke), then, entered the work force even broker again (because the overdrafts were cut off, and the loans demanded repayment). I hustled my way through bar jobs - vamping and ramping it up for tips… and never stopped hustling, really. I am not from money, and I am not from London, both these things put you in a precarious position when you’re starting out; and that feeling, of not being 100% financially secure, that never left me.
Then my industry rather fell apart at the seams, fees remained stagnant for decades (best case scenario, worst: they dropped), Covid killed some revenue streams, cost of living meant you’re suddenly paying £8 for a tube of toothpaste, and… lately, my lack of financial security has felt less like a psychological hangover from my early twenties, and more like The Truth.
Of course I’m that middle class and creative class level of impoverished, where “not having enough money” means, not going on holiday, or, making a choice between pilates and therapy. It does not mean skipping meals so my kids don’t go hungry (I don’t have kids, but you get my point. Even when broke, I am privileged.)
And maybe it’s always feeling a smidge scared about that. Or maybe it’s because I started earning as a bar maid in a cocktail bar, where the culture of tipping, the transactional nature of working a little extra hard for a little extra dosh, is explicit and understood… But I have always been OK asking to be paid.
I think I have a pretty healthy relationship with money. I said it, here… My need for money is a kind of North Star on navigating life. It keeps me on the straight and narrow - admittedly, only because I insist on making it myself, I’m not the kind who ever considered trying to marry it - God, I’d be an atrocious trophy wife! Can you imagine? - or befriend it, Mandy/ Fergie/ Epstein stylee. I like spending it - not gratuitously, that whole pre-Iraq Dubai level of flash and bling kinda turns my stomach these days, and I could never bring myself to buy The Row, even if I could afford it (WHO CAN?) - but I like treating myself (flat white and eye liner grade treats) and I like being generous to others, and I really enjoy receiving the generosity of others. Money is not my religion, but I need it, like it, and - no. I don’t mind asking for it.
Which, I think, is perhaps unusual in a woman. No - definitely. I think there’s some perception of it being graspy, greedy… unfeminine if a woman asks for money, actually. Perhaps it’s because we, our society, or both, still, deep down, believes a man should be providing for us, paying for us, so if we’re reduced to asking for a few quid in return for a few hours of our time and expertise… We’re inadvertently signalling that we don’t have one of those, how embarrassing! How shameful! How prostitute-y, actually.
Or maybe it’s that asking for money, or more money - a pay rise, a higher fee, whatever… That falls into the realm of “confrontational”, which, again, is considered unfeminine, unfetching.
Or maybe it’s because there’s something immodest and un-humble about asking for recompense for your work, ‘cos what? You dare to believe your time, your effort, your knowledge your experience your (whisper it) TALENT, is actually of value? Like: monetary value?
Or maybe (in the case of my kind of work) it’s because there’s something creatively impure about it. I should write for the joy of writing, right? Which I do, I really do.
I just also need to buy food.
Despite which, for whatever reason - maybe the bar maid back story, maybe cos I’m just a born hustler - I never really let that stuff, that coded etiquette, that whispered stigma, get to me. Stop me, anyway. Of course I can feel myself brushing up against the boundaries of its cringe from time to time; of course my heart beats a little faster when I reply to an email asking if I’d be prepared to come down by a couple of hundred quid: “No. I’m afraid not. That’s what I cost. Quite understand if this isn’t do-able for you at the moment”, and not because I’m worried I’ll lose the job, but rather, because I said The Thing.
But ultimately, deep down, I do think I’m worth it. Asking that people pay me for what I do, asking for a bit more than they paid me last year, or the year before… that’s me articulating that I realise I’m rather good, and there’s a premium on that, and no… I’m really not prepared to meet you halfway. And I’m certainly not prepared to meet you no way at all, to work, for you, for free, just because you’re telling me that’s somehow Good For Women, when it is blatantly not good for This Particular Woman - who loves and needs money, and isn’t afraid to say it.
I really wish the rest of you would join me in this. We’d do ourselves way more favours than International Women’s Day ever has.
Now, in respect of, and with respect FOR money, some pretty things which cost far less than they should, some discounts, codes, and secret sales for some of the things on which, I spend my hard earned cash.
First, this obscenely chic and not expensive
