I SPEND MONEY TO FILL A HOLE IN MY SOUL - NOW I'M DROWNING IN DEBT; She blew 30 grand on a bat sanctuary in her garden. Her toothpaste costs a tenner a tube. And her chickens have their own homeopathic vet. No wonder You magazine columnist LIZ JONES never opens brown envelopes...

Byline: by Liz Jones 

EVERY morning when I wake up and switch on my top-of-therange BlackBerry, this is what greets me. 'Please call American Express.' 'Please call Santander.' 'Please call Steve at NatWest.' Mostly, I just ignore these ominous messages. This morning, though, in the interests of research for this article, I bravely called Santander back. 'We need to speak to you about some suspicious activity on your credit card,' a woman said. 'You made a balance transfer of [pounds sterling]9,500 (e10,630), then yesterday someone tried to withdraw [pounds sterling]500 (e560).' 'Yes, that was me.' 'But you knew you were already over your credit limit, so we thought someone else must have got hold of your card.' 'I was being overly optimistic,' I replied. Which is me all over. Wildly, recklessly, overly optimistic. Always living in the hope that the computer inside the cash machine will exercise some discretion, take pity on me, and say yes. Always hoping that by the end of the month some extra money will have miraculously found its way into my account. I waste hours each day avoiding phone calls, avoiding my inbox in case Ken my accountant has sent me an email, braving cash machines, transferring money here, taking it out there.

I have started to loathe the sight of my postman, John. He keeps handing me horrible envelopes that now live in a pile in my office, unopened.

The other day, I found myself in the awful situation of driving to London, then being unable to pay for the petrol. I noticed a sign by the pump that said: 'Sorry, we no longer accept cheques.' 'You b******s!' I muttered to myself. In the end, I had to ask the poor man at the till to take [pounds sterling]10 (e11) each from three different cards.

Later that day, I was unable to pay the [pounds sterling]8 (e9) congestion charge, so this morning, by reading the clues on the back of yet another brown envelope (I won't open it, oh dear God, no), I realise I now have to find the money for a [pounds sterling]60 (e67) fine.

That is the thing with being bad with money. It always ends up costing you much more: in late fees, interest rates. The poorer you are, the more life costs. Like lots of other optimistic, hardworking members of the middle classes, I always thought I'd be okay -- not with pools and private jets, but at least with organic food on the table and a nice house. Yet I am terribly, shockingly in debt.

I don't know the exact sum, but I would guess -- aside from my mortgage -- I owe about [pounds sterling]150,000 (e168,000) on credit cards and in bank loans. Like most people my age, my money is in my house. Unlike my parents' generation, who lived in fear of debt, my generation believed the hype, the interior design magazines, the adverts. I very nearly, a few months ago, bought a new BMW sports car because the ad said it would bring me joy. But, of course, I couldn't afford it.

I grew up the youngest of seven children. My mum was a housewife, my dad worked for the British army, and later the health service. Money was, understandably, tight. I never had a frivolous party dress, or colourful Mary Janes: all my clothes were hand-me-downs, or handmade by Mum.

She would knit me jumpers from wool unravelled from other old sweaters; other girls at school, in the latest PVC lace-up boots, would laugh at me.

I was horse mad, and while my dad managed to pay for me to have a riding lesson once a week, I never had proper jodhpurs or riding boots: I always turned up, ashamed, in plimsolls, and had to borrow one of the old bald velvet hard-hats from the pile in the corner.

I remember once, I went on a school trip to St Paul's Cathedral and I was the only child in the class who did not have the two pound needed to go up the spiral staircase to the gallery. I can feel, even now, the humiliation of being the only one left at ground level.

It is not an excuse to say I was fed up with being poor: just one of the reasons I am in the situation I am in now. My mum never once wrote a cheque or withdrew money from an ATM. I remember her being in hock to the local grocer for [pounds sterling]60 (e67), and the worry it caused her. My parents didn't even own their house. So I wanted something different for me. I didn't want the worry.

But despite earning about [pounds sterling]5,000 (e5,500) a year in my first job on Company magazine, then reaching six figures as a magazine editor, I have never been able to live within my means. It is almost like an illness, but I suspect it's an illness that afflicts many millions of us.

Even as a student, living in London on [pounds sterling]20 (e22) a week, I managed to get myself a store card for a boutique.

I bought Maud Frizon peep-toe shoes, olive silk Calvin Klein shorts and a Katharine Hamnett parka I didn't even like that much. I didn't have a job, but I thought my new wardrobe would get me one. The bill took years to pay off.

Like many people who get into debt, I thought that if I had a nice home and nice clothes then I could get a great job, work hard and my life would be better. Heady with my first salary cheque, I bought my first car, aged 22, an ancient Mini, and the cheque bounced.

I had plastic surgery to reduce my breasts when I was 29 (you see, the feelings of inadequacy, of not being good enough, go rather deep), and the [pounds sterling]4,000 (e4,500) cheque to my surgeon bounced.

ON AND on and on it went, bounce, bounce, bounce. I remember there were a few years, working as a low-paid sub-editor on a newspaper in the Nineties, when all I could afford to eat was cornflakes.

Yes, of course I earned enough to eat properly, but I was seduced by the promise of another, more glamorous life, and I wanted it all now, while I was young.

I didn't want to wait. I didn't want to go on my first exotic holiday, as my parents did, in my 60s.

So instead of using my income to pay for sensible, wholesome food, I went on holiday to a villa in Tuscany, bought a Rolex watch (later pawned to pay my mortgage), Azzedine Alaia clothes and lovely things from Nicole Farhi Home.

That's why being skint has little to do with being lazy or unemployed (I've been known to borrow money from my cleaner).

I take some consolation in the fact that I am not alone. I have many bright, hardworking, entrepreneurial female friends who are facing bankruptcy.

I think I have only been in credit with NatWest, with whom I have been 'banking', for want of a better word, since 1978, just the once. Those halcyon couple of days occurred in 2007. My personal banking manager actually phoned to tell me the good news. I could hear cheering in the background. 'We've blown up balloons and let off poppers,' he told me drily.

So, I hear you ask, why? What makes me dig myself into a hole, time and time again? Why do I never, ever learn, however much I earn? Of course I realise it's all my own stupid fault, but I think the reason I get into such deep trouble is that I try to persuade people to like me by either giving them things or by having nice things and asking them to share them.

When I met my future husband, I had already been burned by a previous boyfriend who had moved in with me for three years but had never bought a single T-towel, paid a utility bill, or bought food -- I hadn't wanted to scare him off by being too demanding.

I repeated the pattern in my new relationship. I tried to buy my future husband's affection. I had managed, somehow, to get back on my feet -- I wasn't in credit, so much as not actively being pursued by bailiffs -- and I was driving a 36-year-old Beetle.

MY FUTURE husband found it hard to change gears, said it was a bit draughty and smelled. Eager to please, I bought a brand new, top-of-the-range automatic BMW (a couple of years later, broke again, I sold it, at a loss of about ten grand).

We ate out at expensive restaurants three or four times a week. I always picked up the bill and I don't even like food that much.

When I was sacked from my job as a magazine editor, instead of using my severance package to pay off some of my mortgage, I took us on a romantic holiday to the Villa San Michele in Florence, one of the most expensive hotels in the world.

We didn't even have a very nice time. I'm sure my future husband was bewildered to be whisked on such a jaunt at such a time, but it was my way of reassuring him that I was still desirable, still successful, still able to pay for things because he couldn't possibly, possibly love me for any other reason.

Take my wedding. Seduced by all those adverts that kept telling me I was 'worth it', I thought, damn it, I'm going to have my special day. I employed Robinson Valentine, couturiers to Camilla Parker Bowles, to stitch me a white cashmere trouser suit at a cost of [pounds sterling]2,600 (e2,900).

I spent [pounds sterling]480 (e540) on a pair of Bottega Veneta heels I couldn't walk in. I bought my own wedding ring, and one for my husband. Total: [pounds sterling]4,000 (e4,475). I even bought my husband's made-tomeasure suit.

I hired the exclusive, expensive Babington House in Somerset, every single room, and put all my guests up, free of charge. Cost? [pounds sterling]20,000 (e22,000), and that didn't even include breakfast.

My florist was the one hired every year by Vanity Fair for its post-Oscars party. Cost? [pounds sterling]3,000 (e3,350) (my mum paid half). I spent my wedding day terrified in case I couldn't afford to pay the bill, my honeymoon in Seville (which I paid for) in a state of acute anxiety in case my bank manager called to tell me off.

I stupidly thought that my profligacy, my show of capability and generosity (I had expressly banned wedding gifts), would impress my new husband, while in reality my agitation about all that money opened a crevasse between us that just got wider and wider.

I have always given people -- friends, relatives, colleagues -- inappropriate gifts. When a friend had a baby not long ago, I could have got something in cotton from Gap, but oh dear me no. I went for Brora cashmere and spent [pounds sterling]600 (e670).

I asked the parent of my godson what he would like for his birthday. 'Oooh, a book. An Xbox 360 game' -- I bought him a [pounds sterling]530 (e600) garden shed. When my marriage was in trouble, I didn't just tell my husband to sod off, I took him on holiday to Mozambique.

I should have worried when we got there (via business class on two planes, a private jet and speedboat) that Sven-Goran Eriksson and Nancy Dell'Olio's names were in the guest book. The bill came to [pounds sterling]26,000 (E29,000).

I am in a terrible financial black hole right now. Mitigating circumstances? I bought a farm in the country, thinking stupidly it would be cheaper than living in London.

I have, probably still smarting from the humiliation of not owning the right jodhpurs as a child, started to rescue race horses, which are proving ruinously expensive. Even my rescued battery hens have two vets: a normal vet and a homeopathic vet.

I have been forced, through circumstances too complex to go into, to renovate my outside buildings: even the new, tiny bat sanctuary has cost [pounds sterling]26,000 (e30,000).

I have also been paying, for the past two years, for a fulltime nurse for my disabled mum. I know everyone sees me as a single woman with no children and therefore no responsibilities, but ancient parents can be dependants, too. Trust me, it is usually the childless person in a family who gets to bear the brunt.

And yes, okay, I have expensive tastes. I cannot love anything that costs [pounds sterling]5 (e5.60), unless it's a small loaf of bread. I hate anything cheap, anything with money off.

The other day, I was in Boots buying cotton wool and my special [pounds sterling]8.95 (e10)-a-tube toothpaste, and the assistant said: 'There is a two-for-one offer on this. I'll hang on while you go back and get another one.' 'But I don't want two,' I whined. 'I can't be bothered to walk back to the aisle and get another one.' That attitude has proved my downfall.

I guess always having worked in the fashion industry is partly to blame: your judgment becomes skewed. You get invited to parties in villas at Lake Como, surrounded by people dressed in Versace, all of whom have several homes, and you think: 'Why don't I have all of this, too?' Of course, I know all the tips about how to manage your money. Shop around for a great deal on interest rates, call your creditors and ask for more time, go to see your bank manager, talk to a financial adviser, check your bank statements. But I am too scared.

Check my bank statement? Are you insane? Make a list of all my outgoings? Even adding up what I spend in my local pet shop each month on my 17 rescued cats and five rescued dogs -- [pounds sterling]400 (e450), and that is not including all my animals who live outside, in fields -- makes me feel faint.

I have lived without a fridge for two years, but I have just bought one -- ooh, it is lovely, a Falcon, in stainless steel with a water dispenser -- for [pounds sterling]3,000 (e3,350). As for the clothes: a couple of months ago, I spent nearly [pounds sterling]4,000 (e4,475) on a Vera Wang dress. I interviewed a member of Girls Aloud the other day, and found out, to my shame, I spend more on clothes and personal grooming a year than she does. A pop star!

How will I get out of this mess? I have been thinking about a male friend of mine, a former banker, who found that having nice things, earning good money, did not make him remotely happy.

He gave everything away and now lives on a sailboat without even a TV to keep him company. I dream of owning nothing, having nothing, just so I can sleep soundly at night again, unafraid of what will greet me when I wake up each morning.

The trouble is, I just can't bear to give all this away.