I really am terribly excited! My husband’s old aunt has just died. Aunt Hilda. She was such a grouchy old bag. I couldn’t stand her. Every Sunday we would have to visit. We didn’t want to get left out of the will, and she was so rich. Unbelievably rich! But goodness! How to ruin a Sunday! In fact, how to ruin an entire week.
I didn’t bother going to the funeral. Why should I? Goodness knows I had visited her often enough. Missing out on her pre-cremation celebration was a pleasure. And then, later that same day, the will was read. Forty three million! Can you imagine? Forty three million! The things I’ll be able to do! In retrospect, it was worth putting up with her blue rinse every Sunday. You’ve no idea the relief now she’s kicked the bucket.
I’m going to start with a new car. And a new house. Not just a house, as you can imagine. More of a manor.
The only thing I have to do, and rather quickly, is to stop my husband from opening his email. He doesn’t open his email that often. I don’t want him to see the message I asked my divorce lawyer to send last week.
Merton had this brilliant idea to make lots of money; and it worked. He would go to the beach and collect a pile of seaweed, throw it in a tub of water for ten minutes, bottle the water, and sell it as expensive garden fertilizer.
Every second gardening enthusiast wanted to buy his fertilizer. Kelp Help was the brand name. The stuff didn’t make an ounce of difference of course, but Merton made heaps of money. He was able to buy a luxury house; and a car; and a racehorse.
Next he was thinking of making a booklet to sell on the internet telling people how to make easy money with snails. You can breed and market snails for eating no trouble. Just buy the booklet and find out how.
A poor person knocked on Merton’s door and asked for some food.
“Clear off,” said Merton. “I worked for my money. If you want to eat you’ve got to use your brains.”
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I’m so tired of being rich. People don’t realise how tedious money can become. I’ll give an example to illustrate what I mean.
Every day the cook would ask if there was anything special I would like for the evening meal. After a while – rather quickly actually – I ran out of ideas. I suggested to the cook that he make up his own mind, as long as he maintained his usual quality. That’s what he’s paid for. Well! You’ve no idea what happened! He served up a wild venison dish. I don’t like wild game particularly, and this meat was far too strong. It might’ve looked fancy, but … yuk! After that, I had to replace the cook with one who toned down the flavours a bit, thank heavens.
Then when my birthday came I said I was tired of all this fancy food and wanted something plain. Perhaps a rissole in a bun – something simple like that. What sort of salad would I like in the bun? A bit of red onion? No, no, no! Cheese? No, no, no! Just a rissole in a bun. Like poor people have every day.
So that’s what I got. It was disgusting. Never again. And it was a top-of-the-range bun. I now understand what poor people have to put up with all the time. I have instructed the cook: once a month, when he’s foraging for groceries, he’s to buy a spare tin of cat food and leave it in the Salvation Army bin at the supermarket. If the poor people don’t have a cat, I’m sure it would be a treat for them to eat it themselves.
Life is certainly more satisfying now that I’m doing my bit.
I didn’t want them to go. I told them not to go. They said, surely you don’t believe in all that hocus pocus? so off they went; the three of them in their old bomb of a car.
Hearsay has it that the old, old witch of the town was buried in a cave somewhere up the valley with a heap of gold coins. Years and years ago. Over a century ago. There was a curse attached: anyone who finds the gold will be cursed. So now, my two teenage kids and their friend are off in the car to find gold.
Surely you don’t believe in all that hocus pocus?
Well, at the moment I don’t. We’re currently building a new house, and my two kids and their friend, are off for a month’s surfing stint in Hawaii. All great fun!
(I won’t be available for responding to comments – or adding comments to your own blogs – over the next day or so. Feel free to continue to have your say here! The stories shall continue to get posted. I shall be back!)
Although Gloria was one of the richest women in the country she didn’t flaunt it. It was family money. She had inherited it. She had grown up rich and was used to being careful with the pennies. She wasn’t a miser by any means; she lived comfortably; in fact, more than comfortably.
Her one regret, at least early in life, was that her wealth prevented her from living a normal life; especially the business of falling in love. Every guy she met she wondered if he was after her money. And then… oh yes! – she fell in love. She never thought it would happen but it did. André! André was the one. He didn’t care about her wealth; he cared about her!
But one day, just before the wedding day, maybe a week or two, she overheard him on the phone.
“Yeah – the marriage is just for a couple of years. Then I should get enough money from the settlement to live a life. It’s a bit like having to endure slowly working your way up the employment ladder, except this will be quicker. And a lot more profitable.”
Gloria was devastated. Devastated! She was wrung out like a rag. Her emotion was overwhelming. She vomited with grief. She didn’t have the energy (she couldn’t help it) to do anything about it.
There was no way that Calvin would cut the hedge. His wife went on and on about it.
“It stops the chilly winds blowing in from the snow-clad mountains,” said Calvin.
“It stops us seeing the spectacular view of the snow-clad mountains,” said Gillian.
Since it was Calvin whose task it was to cut the hedge, the hedge grew tall.
Then Gillian and Calvin moved away. Gillian’s job demanded it. They didn’t sell their house; they rented it out through an agency.
“You do realize,” said the rental agency man, “that if you cut the hedge and could see the spectacular view of the snow-clad mountains, you could charge an extra couple of hundred or so dollars a week. People will pay through the nose for a view like that.”
The hedge was cut down before lunch. To hell with the chilly winds blowing in from the snow-clad mountains.
It was only two weeks until the wedding and Charlene received a tragic phone call. Charlene was devastated, naturally. Her fiancé had died suddenly in the shower.
It was only two weeks before she was to wed one of the biggest mega-millionaires on the planet, and now all was washed down the shower plughole. Admittedly, he was old… But still, it was a shock, and quite, quite premature.
Charlene knew he hadn’t as yet changed his will. Most of the riches would go to his three children and his ex-wives. Perhaps she’d get a bit. But it had been only two weeks away from the real bonanza.
However, there are more fish in the sea, thought Charlene putting on a brave face. She made an appointment with the hairdresser. She purchased a glorious outfit. She would be noticed at the funeral. Her almost-husband’s rich old friends would surely find the grieving almost-widow a figure of attraction. A stately catch in black.