Saturday, 16 February 2013

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. 

1 comment:

  1. LL - you have introduced me to a world of decadent consumerism the like of which I'd never imagined (the FT didn't charge me for a quick look online)
    I didn't know whether to rant and rage against such grotesque inequality in our dear homeland, or just gaze, slack-jawed, with my snotty nose pressed up against the imaginary shop window...
    (I'm lying - I have a subscription to World of Interiors.)