Our grandchildren are penniless. They have pretty much everything their hearts desire and they have parents with wallets full of plastic, but they lack the satisfying chink of coins in a jam jar.
I was alerted to this state of affairs when one of our tribe turned nine and I asked his mother how much pocket money he was getting. The answer was: nothing. The very words ‘pocket money’ seemed to strike her as quaint.
I said: ‘But what if he wants to walk down to the shops to buy a comic?’ The answer was that such a thing was very unlikely to occur to him but, if it did, she would drive him to the shop and pay for the comic.
There, in a nutshell, were two worrying trends. If his mother always pays for everything, what possible chance does he have to understand money? And if he never walks to the corner shop without a hovering adult, when is he going to learn to deal with traffic, cruising pervs and big boys intent on robbing him?
My interest was piqued.
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