With two spiffy luxury hotels in the neighbourhood, I found myself signing up for an annual membership that would earn the family all manner of goodies — for a charge, naturally. While I paid the fee, the complimentary room stay voucher was purloined by my son, the meal discount vouchers were claimed by his sister, but every time we head out for a drink or a meal at either hotel, the kids make sure the bill still gets charged to my account.
The advantages of the discount card might appear generous but you redeem them only against further spending, as a result of which my entertainment bills have been inflating dangerously. Don’t have anything exciting at home for dinner? “Let’s go to the grill,” my son will suggest. Long day at work? “I really like the long island iced tea at the bar,” my daughter will dismiss any attempts to replicate it at home. Unexpected guests dropping in at an odd hour? “Thank heavens for decent restaurants close by,” my wife will hustle us off to either of the hotels. And what with special Tuesday offers and kitty club packages, I’ve been hard put to remember the last time we actually ate at home.
It made sense, therefore, to tie up for the discounted annual gym membership for the family instead of the expensive quarterly one – even as the kids insisted they couldn’t afford it, so I paid up for them as well. Which would have been all right keeping in view the benefits — but whether it’s because they haven’t felt the fiscal pinch, or because a year seems a really long time over which to get, and stay, fit, those gym visits have petered off… It’s been weeks since my daughter worked out; her brother grumbles about her lack of motivation while neglecting his own; as for me, well, I’m not going if they’re not going.
My wife suggested signing up for the supplementary wellness package, so I now find myself paying for their hair rinses and saunas, nail colourings and foot massages. That my daughter thinks nothing of inviting a bunch of friends over for a facial sorority at the spa was to be expected; that my son does the same with his cricket-playing buddies is a bolt from the blue — especially since I’m the one paying.
Now that they’re earning and have their own credit cards, you’d think they would at least pay their club bills, which still get routed to me. When the cars need topping up, or servicing, they’ve arranged with the driver to switch them around so I’m the one filling in the gas. It’s strange how I’m landed with picking up and paying for their dry-cleaning, and find that they’ve opened monthly tabs from the neighbourhood kiranas to the ophthalmologist for their contact lenses, which is when they haven’t managed to coerce me into accompanying them to the malls on weekends for their wardrobe and grooming excesses. They groan about the taxes and crib about the cost of living, which would be fine if they were spending their own money. But since they’ve taken to filching my cards, or their mother’s, even when out clubbing, and haven’t the foggiest notion of what a cheque book is for, it’s hardly strange that at this time of year, when everyone is talking about annual exemptions, it’s not the taxman’s so much as the gourmet package they won’t pay for anyway, that strikes them as the most benefit coming their way.