Your love won’t pay my bills

Standing atop Parktown Ridge, parading through the once-upon-a-time houses of Johannesburg’s once-upon-a-time who’s who list, I felt that it was high time I made a move to get onto today’s who’s-who list – which incidentally hasn’t strayed far from its forefathers, at least in terms of location. Because Jacob Zuma lives a stone’s throw from where Herbert Baker once resided; a mate who has had sex in/jacuzzi’d in/thrown up in a number of these houses confirmed that they’re all the abodes of the people we want to be… or be married to, at least.

Now, I’ve always been the type of lass who - while never a bra-burning, leg hair-growing feminist – believed in being the breadwinner, bringing home the bacon to a great house-husband who gave me daily foot massages and took the kids to school. But during a fabulous cultural walk that gave me a glimpse into the lifestyles of the rich and famous, I decided I didn’t want to be I-can-take-a-holiday-and-buy-a-nice-Jaguar-whenever-I-want rich, I decided I want to be honey-let’s-host-a-ball-tonight-and-round-it-off-with-breakfast-in-Provence rich.

Now, I have some significant obstacles that stand between me and the mounds of moolah I would need to be in this state of wealth. For one, the ordinary day job is not going to get me there. I’ll let you in on a dirty secret; I’m ashamed to tell you, because I’m appalled at my lack of moral character (and recent weeks’ activities will only confirm this further), but while one of the senior associates at my company was away, I snuck a peak at a document sitting on his PC’s desktop (I use his computer at this current client regularly, because his is the only one with Internet access), temptingly entitled “Salary confirmation”. What it indeed confirmed for me, is that even at two salary ranks above me, the poor lad will remain the former type of rich, unless he has other plans afoot (no doubt he does, he’s kinda wiley that way). And I can forget the inheritance taking me to the dizzy heights of gilden excess – while the parentals occupy a nice, not-so-humble residence (not quite in Herbie’s league though) and give the general illusion of wealth, Daddykins squanders his dosh on lavish parties, and seldom puts a cent where compound interest could work its magic. And then, there’s the house-husband issue. The Gilb’s taken quite a liking to the idea, and even if he could be convinced to work for a living, what would make his wealth plight any easier than mine? And I’m not so sure about his parents’ stashed horde either (I can’t very well ask, now can I? So I’ll have to assume the worst. And besides, why then would they live in Linden instead of London? Cultural differences aside, I can only assume it’s due to lack of excess funds). It would all be so easy if I didn’t love my boyfriend so much – I could find someone from the stupidly wealthy set whose fantasies would be all too easy to indulge – but the fact is that I do, and no amount of money can convince me otherwise.

So – you’re all expecting I have a plan. Well, no I don’t, but I’m working on it. Because I will own a wine farm in Chile one day, and would certainly love it if all of you had the dosh to pop in whenever your little hearts desired. Here’s to us! And to the fabulous Zinfandel Vintage year of 2030!