She’s right in part, in terms of the amount of dosh swilling about, and the cost of goods now considered basic or essential to life, but yeah, it wasn’t as grim as all that.
(Maybe we all regard the time we were about 15-17 as the ideal time to have been alive. All the same, the early 1970s really were!)
In Ye Olden Times we had Mary Quant and Biba! Not just Miners, though they produced some terrific stuff. (Rimmel didn’t really register)
At about fifteen I had a very small weekly allowance but still it enabled me to get the train to London, or Oxford, and descend on The Original Laura Ashley™️ and come home with a pile of Indian cotton smocks.
(Blimey, clothes must have been really inexpensive. Ma was mad about fashion and we’d frequently all spend a Saturday traipsing around some town centre, in and out of boutiques, and we’d never come home without something new. This wasn’t lavish behaviour at all, neither was I in any way spoiled, nor Ma profligate. Things were affordable.)
We’d InterRail! Double Diamond party kegs! 🤢, and I certainly necked gallons of Babycham long before I was of 16. Fab fags too: looong American ones, bought from a nearby USAF base. (No Number 6 for me, baby!)
Pa took us (ie parents and 2 young teens) on hols round France alright, but it all was on a shoestring and in an extremely small car. (Anyway, you couldn’t take much money out of GB even if you could afford to in the late ‘60s, so you had to rough it rather)
One telly, one bathroom, no notion of a hoard of ‘snacks’ in the larder, and all meals eaten together. But we thought we had it pretty easy.
Mind you, one glaring difference I often think about is how my poor Ma ran the house alone, as though she were a SAHP, whereas she was a full time teacher with masses of work over and above the school day.
I remember she set up this proto-online shopping arrangement with a nearby independent shop, by phoning in the week’s list and they’d deliver it. I can’t recall helping with anything at all, and neither did Pa or my brother. I cringe to think of this.
Jaysus, got so carried away I’ve mislaid any point I started out with. 🙄
Maybe something about emphases and priorities having shifted most dramatically since OP’s parents’ younger days, to the extent that it’s now difficult to make useful comparisons.
No doubt a modern teenager would think my life in 1971 was little better than that of a Dickensian urchin (and all in grim black and white, no doubt!) and by god I’d not swap with him to be young now.
My father grew up in deep poverty in 1930/40s Ireland, lost his mother and sister to TB and his father to Fords in Dagenham, yet he always recalled these years as supremely happy. (Strange to relate, he received a terrific education, though the country was flat out poor, but it kept his head filled with wonder and a desire to keep on learning, I suppose, and he therefore had an escape valve)
But he used to say to me that despite his being utterly thrilled and enchanted to experience the wonders of the 1960s, like the Summer of Love in London, the Moon landing, colour tv, groovy boutiques and cafés full of beautiful people, great music, etc, he was very glad he’d been young in earlier decades.
I thought he was quite mad, but I understand him now.