1776. I enjoy being a billionaire

Look, life’s not everything it’s cracked up to be. People dream of being rich. I can tell you straight: it’s not always all joy being a billionaire.

Everyone pesters you all the time for a helping hand. They haven’t got this; they haven’t got that. Why should I be able to afford all this stuff when they have enough trouble putting a boiled potato on the table?

I own seven houses – these are not the ones I rent out; these are the ones I live in at different times of the year. People have to realize that when you’re not in a house for twelve months of the year you have to pay a person to maintain the house. And a gardener; they’re not cheap these days. All I hear is moan, moan, moan from some people. No wonder they’re not rich; how can a moaner make a fortune?

But I want to point out something in all seriousness. I know this family a few blocks from where I live. They live in not the most respectable part of town. I know them because I got the wife there to sew me some special hot-plate mittens using a fabric I particularly liked. She worked from home as a seamstress. You know what? Their fridge broke down. I could’ve bought them a new fridge, just like that. But I didn’t. They skimped and saved and when they could afford it they bought and paid for their new fridge. It was yellow. They were so happy that the husband called into work sick for the day it arrived and they spent the rest of the day going in and out of their kitchen looking at the thing. It was wonderful. A joyful thing.

I’ve never known that. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy being a billionaire. But there are some things – like the excitement and joy of a new fridge – I can’t buy.