Drawn to the devil in George Osborne This may come as a body blow to the buy-one-in-every-colour brigade, but having been a child in the 1970s, when my fifth-hand clothes, passed down from four elder sisters, barely raised an eyebrow and a set of Clackers was a Christmas dream come true, I find making do comes much easier than flashing my cash. My husband shudders at my insistence on own-brands and economy-ranges and my howls of Mrs Beeton outrage when he wantonly splashes out on shop-bought puddings - admittedly delicious - but a bit less loving and a lot less thrifty than my versions. I zealously turn off lights and taps, even while my family are still brushing their teeth. I make my own stock. I take buses to airports (the children sweetly wave as they sweep past me in a cab with their father). I darn things. Well, that's not strictly true. I like the idea of darning things, so I hoard old clothes until the moths eat them. And you know, it's not sad and demoralising, it's terribly satisfying. Because I'm not penny-pinching, I'm beating the system one canny Bogof at a time: in short, I'm winning. Frugality without creativity invariably generates a sense of deprivation. Add a twist of ingenuity and the outcome - or at least the perception of the outcome - is very different. Yes, it may be baked potatoes for supper again - but eaten by candlelight. Yes, Mummy is too tight to take out a LoveFilm subscription. But all the more time for cutting and sticking! As Confucius say (and truly, he did): he who does not economise will have to agonise. Or even worse, have Evil George to answer to. What is money for the mistakes that cost lives? What price a life? How much would ease your sense of loss and anger and sadness at the senseless death of two family members? Could you possibly name a sum? The grieving family of Fiona Pilkington, 38, who killed herself and her 18-year-old disabled daughter, Francecca Hardwick, after 10 years of being tormented by a local gang, have accepted what is believed to be a five-figure sum from Leicestershire police as an out-of-court settlement. The police were sued by Fiona's family because she had complained to them about the campaign of harassment they were suffering no fewer than 33 times. The pair were vulnerable and desperate yet remained unprotected and in 2007 Fiona set fire to her car in a layby, as she and her daughter sat inside. It was a hellish escape from a nightmarish life. It has taken five years for the family's civil action to get this far, and the settlement has been made, in numbing, insulting lawyer-speak, "without admission of liability." So why are they giving them money? As a gift? Blood money? It's patently obvious that if there were no liability, there would be no settlement. A 180-page report published by the Independent Police Complaints Commission last May unsurprisingly found that "mistakes had been made" by Leicestershire Police. The truth is, such civil suits against institutions are seldom - if ever - about the money. They are about the principle. But it is the money that concentrates the minds of those in positions of power and effects change. "When someone makes a complaint without taking legal action, it's easy to sweep under the carpet," a local authority lawyer friend admits. But once the bean counters get involved, then everything gets serious. I hope the family of Fiona and Francecca gain some pleasure from the money they receive. But somehow, I very much doubt it. Games are poised for a celebration of the fleet of foot and downright furry When Prince Harry gingerly streaked past Usain Bolt this week, faster than a ferret up a trouser leg, he provided the perfect opener for London 2012, a games that will be remembered for its bizarre biodiversity. Artificial holts have already been created in the Olympic Park to encourage otters to swim in any waterways not already occupied by Rebecca Adlington and Tom Daley. There's more. At nearby Westfield, you can drink weasel coffee, made from beans that have been previously eaten and excreted by weasels. How fabulous and special is that? No, me neither. But before you poo-poo the idea, what about a faux-ermine BlackBerry cover? A pine (marten) air freshener? Or the beauty stand where mink hairs can be glued into your eyelashes? Forget those stupid cartoon mascots, mustelids are an Olympic must-have. Remember, you heard it here first. It's no wonder they're all the Raj I went on a rare outing to the cinema with a girlfriend this week and my efforts to stay up past 10pm were well rewarded by the giddy joy that is The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. All the colour and cacophony of India, the cream of British acting talent and Dev Patel's earnestly dazzling smile combined to deliver two of the sunniest hours" entertainment imaginable. Dame Judi was on vintage form, ditto Bill Nighy and, of course, Dame Maggie. Yes there were stock characters and clichés abounded, but what's the point of handing over a tenner just to be a cynical churl? We left the auditorium so buoyed up that I swear if there had been a Saga-sponsored Retire to Rajasthan stand in the atrium, the entire audience would have signed up without a second's hesitation.