Bank v Mattress?

On top of my usual insomnia, I have another pressing worry that is keeping me awake at night, which is how safe are my savings? They're not actually savings. I'm no earthly good at saving. If I have a few pounds kicking around in the bank and spot something delicious in a sale (wot? pay full price? me?), a treat always feels in order. No, I am referring to the vast sum gained from the sale of my house a year ago. It's not vast by London standards, but it's pretty good by Liverpool standards and I have been casting my eye over the estate agents' websites in Scouseland lately, wondering if I should buy two properties there, live in one and let out the other? On the other hand, a villa in Turkey overlooking the sea has a certain appeal...

Seriously though, I divided the cash between three different banks and building societies, putting it on instant access in case I suddenly found the place of my dreams and needed it in a hurry. In the past, I have always put house sale money into just one pot, as it's far easier to cope with moving cash out of one account than it is out of three. Now I discover that you're only covered for the sum of £35,000 if the financial institution where you have parked your cash goes bust. This means I should open six more accounts right away.

This is what is causing the headache, insomnia and downright panic symptoms: if I find the thought of organising cash from three accounts a problem, how the HELL would I manage nine? How do you know they will all transfer the money into my account in time to complete on the purchase? And it's not just getting it into my account that's a problem. It has to go in there, then out again and into the solicitor's account. The amount of organisation involved is immense. I don't feel up to the job and have just been in floods of tears at the very thought, wishing I had a Husband who could pat me on the head, say 'There, there, don't bother your pretty head about it, I will take charge of all the financial things from now on. You just sit there and write your books.'

Once that thought had entered my fluffy head, I shook it, appalled. Had I really thought that? Over the past century, thousands of women have fought, and some had died, to win a woman's right to have the vote and manage her own finances, and here was I mentally throwing it all away. I thought of a friend who, having won a substantial sum in damages against a hospital who wrecked her health, failed to protect it from her wicked husband who gambled it all away. Do I really want to turn back time and go back to the days when not only was a wife her husband's property, but all her worldly goods, too!

When I bought my first flat in 1979, it was very hard for a woman to get a mortgage in her own right and my boss had to stand as guarantor. Now, teenagers can get one - or could, until the present economic downturn began. But... nine different savings accounts? Aaaargh! Would it not be easier to buy a property - any property - and only have to manage one? Or shall I take every penny out of every account and stuff it all under the mattress? This is my current dilemma.

Last night I was at a do at Claridge's entitled, How Green Is My City? In the company of much money, old and new, a sprinkling of titles (Sir Clive Sinclair being one) and much flashing jewellery and gilded hair, I listened to talks about Living Walls and how to encourage bats into one's belfry. The wine was vile - white and acidic, I drank half a glass - and the nibbles were sushi, and today I am feeling ghastly, with thumping head and roiling tum. I have cancelled both my massage and the appointment I had to view a house. As for staring at the screen for hours as I research savings rates in various building socs, forget it. I hope the sheer force of my anxiety will keep the three to whom I have entrusted my every penny afloat for another day. Now, there did I put the Valium?