I'm not entitled to a grant, as my father
is apparently too rich. I was embarrassed,
because Virginia asked me how much he was on, so that
I could be given at least
some sort of grant. I thought it would be alright just
to say that he paid me a small allowance.
She was furious - she said, "What! He's a
bank manager and he lets you live in poverty!”
She's like the others. She
doesn't understand. Money is the root of all evil. My father
deserves a lot of pity. He'll never be given
a place in heaven. I was the one that
determined how much I'd need every month, so if
I didn't get my calculations right, I'm the one
to blame.
I've learnt a lot since I've
been in Oxford - about being poor, walking in
the cold to save on the cost of a bus
ticket, having just a cup of sugary coffee
for lunch and listening to free concerts
in Cornmarket Street. I go to bed at nine o'clock,
just as the bells start ringing out at Christ Church.
Last
month after
I'd paid the rent, I had enough money left over
to buy myself a decent pair of shoes.
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