Conspicuous consumption

On hearing a commuter on my train to work last night using his mobile phone to loudly book an appointment for a 'hot stone massage', whatever that is, for his partner, I couldn't help but think of Peter Sinfield's more than 40 year old lyrics - Nothing he's got he really needs, 21st Century Schizoid Man. That, and hearing the story this morning of a former shift manager at my workplace, who'd taken early retirement before my time there, putting his fairly modest former family home in the relatively upmarket area of London where I work on the market for £800000, and being told by the estate agency that he'd find a cash buyer within a week. Recession, what recession? I have to admit that I compared my situation to people who have that kind of money rather bitterly - after working my arse off for 35 years, I could, when I moved to the flat a couple of months ago, fit literally everything I owned into the boot of my brother's car. With room to spare. Yeah, I am where I am partly, or maybe even principally, because of the succession of terrible decisions I've made in my life, but the contrast between even someone like me, who isn't poor, by any stretch of the imagination, and some of the 'high rollers' in this town is almost surreal.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B