I'M skint dear readers, absolutely brassick. Broke, penniless and really don't have a pot to.... you get the picture.

There's still four days left until pay day, and because those four days include a weekend the misery is compounded.

I won't be going out tonight revelling in city centre life, and Saturday and Sunday will follow much the same pattern. I can't even get a DVD out from Blockbuster thanks to an outstanding £3.50 fine, which means it will cost me double that just to watch whatever rubbish is out at the moment.

That same £7 can be put to much better use in my local off-licence, which is currently offering two bottles of the not-so-fine red plonk for a fiver. It would be rude not to.

Whichever company first championed monthly wages certainly has a lot to answer for.

And whoever it was who decreed that employees should be paid on a fixed date should be shot.

My colleagues and I look forward to hitting pay day this Tuesday, which is of no use to any one.

Surely it would be better for the country's entire workforce to be paid on a Friday so they can actually go out and enjoy the spoils of their labour.

What are we supposed to do on a Tuesday night?

The easy solution to this is: don't spend it all at once. But that's far too sensible for me.

As soon as my wage hits the bank, I hit the shops satisfying whichever urge I may have at that time. It's usually CDs, and of late I have developed an obsession with second-hand records.

A dusty version of Elvis Live in Person may be a bargain at £5, but add to that a scratched Carpenters Gold, Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell and Led Zeppelin Two and it soon mounts up.

On paper the Long Suffering Marjorie and I should be a financially sound couple. We are both young professionals (she is a teacher) yet life is a constant struggle.

The reality of our situation is that the LSM has only recently secured work as a supply teacher at various schools near our home, and is yet to see her first pay cheque (so she says).

While she was training to be teacher good old Tony Blair gave the LSM around £150 a week -- a princely sum, especially when it stops. Her part-time job as a waitress in a pizza restaurant brings in considerably less.

And it is swallowed up by her previous student debts, and the 25 per cent increase in council tax we have incurred since she stopped being a student. (What Tony giveth Tony can taketh away!)

We are scraping the bottom of the freezer for our teas each night. Last night we were down to fish fingers so old that the box carried a promotion for "the new Sylvester Stallone film Rocky."

The LSM refused to eat hers and wasn't even convinced that it was actually us that bought them -- that they had been inherited when we moved into our current abode more than 15 months ago. Of course I polished both hers and mine off. What are the previous owners going to do? Come round and ask for them back.

My dinners at work are also suffering. I've been forced to bulk-buy a rake of sandwich material which has kept me going this past week and should suffice until Tuesday, when I can't wait to eat decent food again. Any more ham and cheese muffins and I'll turn into one, and I can't wait for a quality pack of crisps. Quavers, French Fries, any known brand name, instead of the supermarket's own I have been living off for so long. I obviously picked up the "taste-free" ones and can't wait to get back to normal.

I won't be throwing anything away though. I'm sure they'll be back in my butty box this time next month!