Can’t buy me love

Yesterday I went to London for a meeting and had to go to Knightsbridge. This, for my American friends, is the section of town which holds most of the serious money. Dior and Chanel. Exorbitant real estate prices, Harrods, embassies, aristocrats & royalty. Its little sister, nestled within it, Belgravia, has an even more concentration of extraordinary wealth. Saudi Princesses parade about, sheets of black silk billow about them, black Bentleys silently cruising behind. Men with ear pieces trail the beautiful as they shop. Restaurants don’t have names. These are the Uber Rich.

 So I’m bopping along, on my way to the meeting and I’m struck by this sight. People look morose. Morose is a great word and in this case, it’s exactly what I mean. Webster’s says: hard to please, exacting. having a sullen disposition: GLOOMY. (their caps, not mine). I think, ooh, that guy’s having a bad day. Hhhmm…she must have a wicked case of hemorhoids. Wow, that teenager looks comatose with, what is that? Boredom? What’s going on here? Why does EVERYONE look so sour?

 If you were doing an advertisement for what money can do for you, you’d have to stay clear from this place. The shops are so exclusive but everyone inside looks miserable. No body seems to be having any fun. You’d think they’d all be skipping from one shop to the next, whistling, holding doors open for each other. All this exquisite luxury seems wasted on these morose, depressed, bored people. A woman, who refused to yield to me on the sidewalk (we played a kind of class chicken), hit me with her oversized Prada shopping bag as I tried to move. (I always move in the end. My excellent manners, the automatic default that I cannot seem to override, no matter what, are a product of my good upbringing). Even though she nudged me into a building, I said sorry. She looked at me with a kind of revulsion that seemed very easy for her to access. I’d have to imagine some pretty horrible stuff to get that look on my face, and still I don’t think I could produce it. It seemed to come from some boiling reservoir of hatred. Sheeesh! I’m the one overdrawn here!

 I had a great meeting and a great day, probably way greater than Pissed Prada Person, even though I’m not the owner of a new £683 blouse. My long train ride home to Scotland was thought provoking, as usual and (having discovered that the train has a ‘quiet car,’ my thoughts were allowed to roam far and wide, without being trespassed upon by people shouting into their cell phones) very relaxing.

 I thought about how lucky I am to spend my days doing the thing I love most, making stuff and being in the company of so many talented, interesting, funny, loving people. Uber Lucky.

 Now to write.