Whatever you do... don't...

ever read the 

'how to spend it'

in the F. T.

After reading this week's,

I fell back onto the sofa.

Well that's actually a lie, cos

I was already on the sofa...

I fell even deeper into the sofa and depression.

I got to thinking of the meaning of life...

Do ballet dancers have broad feet?

Do quails' wishbones constitute art?

Can I see a Lambretta petrol tank as the body of a beetle?
(Well actually... YES!)

Could I see myself trolling off to Aldi in De Beers finest?

No probably not!

Glass of Mateus (fib) in hand, suddenly I felt

madly, deeply discontent.

I hoover up every word of these 'rich' peoples' lives,

I crane my neck to see which books they have on their shelves.

In my mind I imagine what it must be like not to worry about money.

When I worked in a Royal household I often thought...

Oh, how I'd love to be a bitch:

knowing full well I'd inspire scorn in my staff, if I showed just the teensiest drop of human kindness!

The awful conclusion I've come to is...

I'm happy as I am: 

I don't have the fear of stepping out of the door without full warpaint;

walking into a pub, and people nudging each other as I order my pint of brown and mild.

In a nutshell...

life's pretty good without turning left on airplanes.