Cutbacks.

I have been pondering lately whether to cancel my Sunday paper delivery. I actually did for a while during my 3rd year oh-god-i-haven't-started-my-dissertation-yet-and-I-have-7-billion-due-essays crisis, but restarted it once that was all over. Lately though, in an effort to pull back on unecessary spends, I have been analysing the use I get for my money. The Observer remains the SP of choice, but I seem to throw away so much of it. Sport? Get lost. Media & Business? Life is grim enough thanks. These go automatically onto the log basket in their pristine, flat, unread state. Review, the main paper and Escape make it onto the tray that goes upstairs with the giant cup of tea. Then Escape, with its pale blue crystalline sea smug cover, is the first to be flung. I used to have a travelling life, I do find other countries fascinating and long to visit, but, and this is the thing you see, I can't right now. Anything other than my frequent (and hugely fun) Prague bound weekends which cost approximately £50, is out of my league, and I can't bear to see anyone else spouting on about it. Escape, is only mildly less annoying than those TV programmes where some middle aged couple (you know, the annoying ones who didn't split up and sell their house at a loss) prance around buying holiday flatlets and villas with their spare change in up and coming bulgarian seaside areas. Those programmes turn me into a rabid psychopath.

Anyway, to return to the point. Is it worth it? I seem to pay the paper shop the cost of a small mortgage for the priviledge of chucking this lot out every week. Every Sunday it invariably wakes me up when the grumpy git who delivers it crams it all in once lump through the letterbox. Kerrraphhhhchunkperlunk. Boom. Thats me then, 7am. Then more than half of it is burnt. And the magazines - Observer Music Monthly is often worth a read, but when it is Food or Sport monthly, more wasted money. I do like cooking, but I'm not about to throw a dinner party for 12 where I will cook individual black puddings in apple sauce and mustard, so that's a waste of time too.

Then we have Euan Ferguson, and this is my dilemma.

Euan Ferguson, is the most fabulous man in the world. I look at his cocky sneer, his ginger tufted spiky hair, his sharp suited hand in pocket stance, and I think 'cor'. Today he is writing about his rubbish life with no central heating, and his ex who has loaned him a Noddy duvet, and I think, yes, Euan, I love you deeply and you are entirely worth a small mortgage every month.

So the paper stays. Now, how else can I cut back?