It’s 4.15am in London. Summer must be official when I can hear the birds beginning the day, the hint of light already there. The past few halcyon days of sunshine and daisy lawns has this entire nation in a good mood, so being up this early is hardly a struggle. Not like those tomb days of winter.
When perfect weather conditions, or love, or small pockets of happiness drop into our laps, instinctively we learn to appreciate it all the more. Too much of anything and we forget the art of appreciation entirely. There are some things we simply should curtail in life — excess winter, overindulgence of rich wine and food, baggage, especially when one is the only porter, and excess classless tacky gabillionmillionaires. Like any true love affair, discretion and respect makes one classy. Makes one worthy. Jeez, don’t they know?
As if the Kardashians have not managed to produce enough bile to last me a lifetime, I found myself intrigued by the soap opera that is Guptagate. Oh, I know that big honchos do these things all the time, serve left of the law and right of the greased palm as if being a good citizen was reflux inducing. It matters not what I do not know, but a R70 million wedding in country with such need, with such pomp and impropriety, is the height of classlessness. Like the Marie Antoinette of satin ballgowns avec meringue to the pustle rags avec mouldy dough. Ugh, ugh and ugh again. What happened to just being grateful that you have enough money to buy a dozen or so politicians or a lifetime membership to Louis Vuitton — why show the cash and the lack class at the same time?
I suspect in all this flash, illegal activity and gaudiness, the bride and groom were quite forgotten. There is nothing romantic about a circus. This entire episode proves it. Hooray to some members of the government who would have none of this upmanship, and a strike-out for those who felt important enough to be part of the blue light, blue label brigade for the sake of a party.
Though not quite in my nun’s habit I often wonder if I am just jealous of not being part of this excessive society? Would I not without hesitation, put on the Manolos, strap the Chanel and call the chauffeur ‘John’? Everyone knows heels are not for public transport and so what if I want to fly in the Salmon; or pay millions for a view everyone else has, but with the added bonus of a bullet proof garage?
My point. Not the wealth. If justly earned, justly yours. The excess. Exhibitionism in any form is a big bad mark on the classy list. The more you want to be known for being rich and powerful, the more you are going to need that bullet proof garage. I will pass thank you. Besides, mysterious and dignified is so much more alluring.
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