I’m Clara Ames, 43, Londoner by birth and spreadsheet by temperament. I run partnerships for a tech firm in Shoreditch, which is a respectable way to say I work hard, sleep with my laptop, and funnel a slice of every paycheque into a pot labelled beautiful nonsense. I don’t splash out often, but when I do, I do it properly: one weekend, three strategic splurges that make the whole trip feel richer. This time it’s the Riviera—Monaco if we’re being specific, mischief if we’re being honest.
Hour 0–4: Stay — the room that starts the holiday for you
I arrive early, the way grown-ups do when they’ve learned that time is the ultimate luxury. My first spend is the room, not the rate: I book a boutique hotel where the design whispers instead of shouts, and I pay for the exact category I want—a top-floor suite with light that behaves, a bath that fills quickly, and curtains that swish like good theatre.
Within minutes the door clicks shut and I’m in my favourite costume: towel turban, duvet cocoon, flute in hand, a strawberry that tastes suspiciously like permission. I’m not “preparing” to enjoy myself; I’m already there. Later, in striped silk pyjamas, I take my glass to the velvet sofa and let the lamps turn the room sepia. Good hotels recalibrate you. They edit the day, soften the edges, and widen the margins so your thoughts can doodle again. That’s what I pay for.
Hour 5–14: Taste — the hero meal that becomes the memory
Splurge number two is dinner that doubles as a story. I book the chef’s counter—close enough to see the flicker of concentration, far enough not to intrude. There’s a bite that looks like a wink: a crisp roll crowned with caviar, radish, and something bright I can’t place until the chef murmurs “apple blossom vinegar.” I nod as if I knew.
This is why I save. The theatre of plating, the soft choreography of a team moving like a single thought, the feeling of being looked after by people who love detail more than anyone has the right to—none of it photographs properly and all of it lingers. I order the smaller tasting menu (discipline is part of the fun), add a half-bottle of Blanc de Blancs, and promise Future Me she can eat lentils midweek with the self-satisfaction of a monk.
Hour 15–24: Move — the transport that turns geography into cinema
The third spend is how I move. In a place like Monaco, you don’t hail a cab; you hire a fantasy by the hour. The Ferrari purrs like a smug cat as I thread past the casino and up to the Corniche, where the road sketches the coastline in long, clean sentences. I am, for a few glorious hours, entirely impractical—windows down, scarf behaving like it’s auditioning for the role of “escape.”
Driving doesn’t just get me there; it makes the there. I stop once to look back at the Principality—the brushed gold of afternoon on limestone—and laugh aloud at the audacity of it all. If teenage Clara could see me now, she’d ask what it cost. Adult Clara would say: less than a year of little compromises, and worth every cancelled takeaway.
Hour 25–36: The compounding effect
I sleep like I’ve accomplished something—which, in a way, I have. Morning is slow coffee by the window, a last soak in that ridiculous tub, and a walk along the harbour counting the “what ifs” bobbing at their berths. Because the big secret is this: when you spend in the right places—room, meal, movement—everything else gets better for free. The bakery tastes like a reward, the view looks like a gift, and even the bill at checkout feels like you’re paying yourself interest.
Back in London, I’ll go quiet again—packed lunches, commuter trains, the consolations of routine. But I’ll carry this weekend like a talisman: the towel crown, the caviar wink, the red bonnet angled at the casino. Three splurges, 36 hours, absolutely no regrets.
Bio
Clara Ames is a London-based partnerships director who hoards annual leave and airline points with equal zeal. She believes in good sheets, small menus, and spending where it compounds.
