The billionaire and the billionairess

Another folk tale from the olden times.

The billionaire was anxious. He'd spoken to his therapist, his personal trainer, his foot masseur and now he had scheduled a meeting with the billionairess.

The billionaire and the billionairess were not close friends, but the billionaire would turn to her as one of the few people who truly understood what it was like to be a billionaire in this modern world.

They met up in a discrete private lounge at the airport. The billionaire ordered a rum and Diet Coke, the billionairess tucked her raven locks behind her ear.

"Listen, I have summoned you here as you are a powerful SheEO. I look to your power as a powerful woman and a boss babe." The billionaire started out strong. He knew this woman deserved to be treated with respect.

"Go on, I'm listening," the billionairess murmured, absently mindedly playing with her solid gold Pandora charm bracelet.

"Boss babe, they are coming for my private jet. Some kids have started a website called www.trackthebillionairesprivatejetdotcom.com and you can log on and see where my private jet is at. I feel extremely uncomfortable knowing that anyone on the internet is going to be aware that last week I took my private jet to the pedicure salon that would alternatively have been a five-minute drive in my gold-plated limousine."

"Concerning." The billionairess furrowed her brow.

"How can I stop them?" The billionaire's voice quivered. Tomorrow I was planning to take the jet to go and visit my neighbour down the road but now I am reassessing my optics and might instead use my gold-plated e-scooter.

The billionairess paused, looked thoughtfully at the melting ice in the billionaire's drink and then spoke.

"The billionaire, there are two options. The first is you can install a cloak of invisibility around your plane. You know Wonder Woman's invisible jet? It's the same technology, but it will require that you are accompanied by a woman at all times."

The billionaire sharply inhaled. He was a lone wolf and didn't need no woman.

The billionairess continued.

"Alternatively, you need to stop caring about what people think. Neither of us got to where we are today by caring about what the www web thinks of us. Instead, you must take your private jet more often. Need to use the toilet down the other end of your mansion? Don't walk - take your private jet. You are too rich and too busy to bother with walking!"

"Wise words, sister. But what about the carbon emissions," the billionaire asked. "I do not understand what carbon emissions are, but what about them?"

"That is simple," the billionairess replied. "Just plant a tree. Here, I always carry a few pinecones in my designer leather bag for occasions like this. The next time you are near some grass, throw a pinecone on it."

"Grass? This is marijuana?"

"No, the other kind of grass. Lawns, finely manicured lawns."

"Sorry," said the billionaire. "The only manicure I know of is what Martin does to my hands every Tuesday. Speaking of which, I need to get going to this week's appointment — which I will do via my private jet, with considerable pride!"

The billionairess smiled. "Good, I'm glad we had this conversation."

The billionaire stood and was about to leave but he paused.

"One more thing, boss babe. Does the loneliness ever end?"

"No, the billionaire. It never does."

The billionaire and the former All Black

Another folk tale from the olden times.

The billionaire stared at the headline in the newspaper. He had gotten his assistant to print out a webpage on newsprint as like liked the feeling of a traditional newspaper. Classic.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the headline. The billionaire had been under the impression that his one-on-one coaching session with the former All Black was strictly confidential.

But yet there it was. The former All Black was telling his story — their story — to the newspaper:

The billionaire sighed. He had been pleased with the one-on-one life coaching session with the former All Black, but now it seems that the hallowed sportsman had not learned the most important lesson of all: it’s not how soft one’s beard feels to others that matters, it’s how soft it feels to yourself that truly counts.

The billionaire and the generous package

Another folk tale from the olden times.

The billionaire crinkled his eyes; his kindly, kindly eyes. They were eyes that had got him far in business and ensured he could retire early to enjoy this golden car, his private jet and maintaining his thick, lustrous beard.

But the billionaire felt an emptiness in his heart. All his friends — less successful businessgents who were only millionaires — enjoyed sharing their knowledge and wisdom by mentoring up-and-coming businessladies and businessgents.

The billionaire had considered doing this but — as he rubbed organic coconut beard oil into his rich, golden beard — he wondered where would he even have the time to do this.

Then the billionaire had an idea. Two years ago, during one of the billionaire’s road-side powwows, one of the dads had invited him into their cyber group chat. At first the billionaire had felt thrilled to be part of their dad society and eagerly awaited to learn of their secret dad knowledge.

But the billionaire had been disappointed when the topics of conversation seemed to revolve around recommendations of plumbers, K-mart hacks, where to go for cheap petrol and memes.

One of the dads had asked the billionaire how to become a billionaire (lolzz!!!!) but the billionaire had been disgusted and put the group on mute. If you have to ask, you’ll never know.

But surely he did know. After all, he was a billionaire. Maybe the billionaire held the secret to wealth generation in his golden hands.

The billionaire logged into Friendster and send out messages to all the chaps in the dads group chat. 

“Gentlemen, hello. I am the billionaire and I wish to share my secrets to financial success with you. If you were born between 1940 and 1985 then I will grant ye a package of FREE MONEY, of at least $149,795. But I must reiterate - this is ONLY available to those born between 1940 and 1985.”

But the billionaire had not counted on one thing: this was a millennial dads group chat. All of them had been born in the late 1980s and early 1990s. 

Only 90s kids will understand the disappointment felt at missing out on at least $149,795.

Anger grew in the millennial dads group chat. A vote was taken and it was decided to remove the billionaire from the group. Whoever he was, he didn’t understand their needs. And anyway, his golden car was electric so he didn’t even know where the cheap petrol was.

The billionaire sighed. His golden Apple Watch buzzed, reminding him that it was time to massage more oil into his beard.

But this time the billionaire gave pause. As he gazed at himself in the mirror, he wondered. Just what did the millennial dads use to groom their beards?

Unexpectedly nice hotels I have stayed at

Sydney, 2015

I wanted somewhere cheap and remembered a place I’d stayed about 10 years before. I found it, it was still cheap, so I made a booking - but noticed from the photos that it had been redecorated.

I arrived at the hotel and was dismayed that it had become rundown. The lobby was full of irritated-looking family groups. But whatever - it was cheap. And then the receptionist didn’t have my reservation. I pulled out a print-out of the confirmation and she said, “Oh, that’s across that road.”

(There was a weird bug with google maps when sometimes addresses would be located on the opposite side of the street. I assume this is what had happened. But more importantly, what had I booked?)

I went across the road and found a fancy-as serviced apartment complex. I hadn’t booked a tiny studio room. I had booked a huge studio apartment with a full size kitchen including an oven. I could have baked bread if I’d felt like it.

The whole experience was unexpected and delightful, even stranger because it was still in a not-so-fancy area with loads of budget hotels.

Riga, 2016

Again, I’d booked a cheap studio room with a kitchen so I could save money and self cater. I booked in and headed up to my room. I opened the door and discovered... a double height lobby.

For some blessed reason, my three-night Latvian stay had been upgraded the two-storey suite. Downstairs was the living area (with a huge couch), a full kitchen (again, bread baking could have happened), a dining room, a toilet and the effing double-height lobby.

Upstairs was the bedroom feat. a king-size bed and an ensuite bathroom with a roll-top bath.

The funny thing was, I’d injured my knees so going up and down the stairs was painful and difficult. Ditto for using the bath.

But I appreciated the experience. The most glamorous thing I did was wash my clothes in the kitchen sink and leave my underwear to dry on the radiator.

Berlin, 2016

And again, I’d booked a cheap studio room with a kitchenette. I was staying five nights, which - the receptionist informed me - meant that he would give me an upgrade. “It has a washing machine,” he said and I almost melted.

Separate bedroom? Bigger kitchen? Wotever. When you’ve been schlepping around for three weeks and have only washed your clothes in a Latvian kitchen sink, a proper washing machine is luxury. I bought a giant two-litre bottle of German laundry detergent and washed my clothes.

I think of and appreciate these moments a lot.

(And I’m still not 100% sure what was going on with the Sydney hotel.)

The United Nations wouldn’t let Hitchcock shoot North by Northwest at the actual UN headquarters, so he built a replica model of it (and did one stealthy shot from a disguised van on the street).

It turns out the model was very accurate, as Google Street View confirms.

Hurrr

I think a lot about a conversation I once overheard in the beauty department at Smith & Caughey’s. A woman was explaining her problem to a sales assistant. See, she’d been using the same moisturiser for years and it had been doing a really good job. But she was worried that the manufacturer had perhaps changed the formula or maybe her skin had gotten used to it because she’d started to see fine lines developing and she was worried.

It didn’t seem like the alternative - that she was getting older and she skin was ageing - was an option.

But I found myself falling down that rabbit hole recently. My hair was looking all dry and frizzy but what was causing it? Was it my shampoo and conditioner? Was it the horrible water in Raglan with its high mineral content?

Then one day I found a rogue hair on my pillow. It was kinky, the kind you most definitely don’t take home to mother. I examine my hair. Yes, from the roots. This wasn’t just the end result of bad shampoo or a rough blowdry. My hair is becoming kinky and frizzy. I’m getting old lady hair.

I’m not sure I feel about this, but I have a pair of hair straighteners and I’m not afraid to use them.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

In 1995, my family got two cats, brother and sister. Mum decided to call them Max and Mini, but I’d just watched Paris is Burning and was inspired by the dag houses. So their full names became:

From the house of Xtravaganza, Queen Maximilian Xtravaganza, lovely fluffy cat From the house of Fanling, Princess Jasmine Mini-Min-Minn-Minnz Fanling NT

So it was a tribute to the House of Extravaganza. Max was very camp for a cat and it just seemed fitting that he’d be a queen. Minnz was named after the Hong Kong district of Fanling NT, which kept coming up as in a postal address mentioned on CNN. (I also watched a lot of CNN in the mid ‘90s).

The first time I came across the word “hip-hop” was in the late ‘80s. I’d heard of rap, but hip-hop was totally new to me.

So I was reading an Australian teen music magazine and there was an article about new Australian hip-hop stars. I had no idea what it meant, but I remember reading and rereading the article, desperately trying to pick up some context.

Of all the acts profiled in this article, perhaps the one that was most relatable to me as a teenage girl, was a couple of white chicks. They both had long blonde hair and in the photo they wore backwards baseball caps, sunglasses and did B-girl poses. In retrospect, they were probably a cheesy novelty act, but to young music-loving me, they seemed so cool.

So for years — far too long — that’s what symbolised hip-hop to me. Rap was Public Enemy, De La Soul and NWA, while hip-hop was these two Australian white girls with backwards baseball caps.

Yo.