The trumpery comes ad nauseum over the griller at village barbecues.
Money wouldn’t change me, they say with noble intention and the knowledge that in all likelihood, the money they have from the superannuation fund won’t fluctuate any time soon.
They’ll tell you they’d live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, and pour porridge into the same bowl every morning. Because they’re happy little creatures of habit, those humble souls whose rectitude is unflappable.
They’d shop frugally as they always had. Because that’s something that comes with being raised in a ghetto, attending state-funded schools and trusting a man who leaves the milk in the early hours of the morning and leaves the right amount of coins in return for a brown one-dollar note.
They’d eat at restaurants which serve an honest meal. By honest, they mean well-priced. For the younger readers, the reason older people eat during the day isn’t entirely due to their state of health. It’s because mid-week lunch is where the specials are.
Not me. I’d be moving those goal posts as far as my new bank balance would let me.
Sure, I’m in favour of noble pursuits and polite exchanges with fellow scrappers as we reach for the bowels of our trouser pockets in search of tea money before taking turns reading the pre-purchased newspaper in the local coffee shop.
Give me $80 million like that cleaner in Melbourne however, and I’m a completely different man with a whole new set of rules.
List my company on the New York Stock Exchange like that battery-charged battler from Beenleigh and I’m all of a sudden as shallow as a drought-stricken bath tub.
Not to those I like. Friendship is genuine. I must say though, there are some in the clubhouse who might not meet my new level of tolerance towards tales of life’s hardships.
Because the new multi-million-dollar me is a glass-half-full kind of guy who wakes up with a spring in his step wondering what each new day brings.
I’ll be stepping out of my new bedroom into my new pool – one of those with the clear drinkable water, no longer worrying whether urination has crept into my latest mouthful of chlorinated wonder soup from the public bath.
Remember your roots, they’ll probably say. More codswallop.
Sure, I’ll help others. But I’ll do it quietly. I won’t be one of those who bid overs at charity auctions, only to call for the item to be re-auctioned. They’re the noisy rich. My humility will be in my silence.
I’ll travel because it’s a fun activity, and something Wanda likes to do. There, we’ll shop. Never again will I have to shoulder charge anyone for the last roll of toilet paper, a deli number or a 5pm reduced-price barbecued free range chicken.
Because grocery shopping isn’t necessary from the deck overlooking turquoise-coloured island waters. I’ll probably have necessities delivered by helicopter.
When I’m home, I’ll likely stay within the boundaries of my 3m fence or my private beach, inviting like-minded people for a game of euchre and a bite to eat, carefully prepared by the kitchen staff.
I won’t need Uber because I’ll have a “guy” – a gender-neutral “guy” – for that kind of stuff.
Nope, you’ll never hear me say money wouldn’t change me. Because it would, and my lifestyle with it.
Allow me to dream. Now where’s the Lotto form, and what are all those birthday numbers again?
