17 July - Ibiza dream on

Idly looking at airfares to Ibiza in August. I know I keep promising to myself not to travel for a while but uh, the sunshine is beckoning and have been a bit too much of a goody goody recently and feel all night dancing would be a trip in itself, it just never seems to happen. So I find the dates, the price is good. So I email a friend who’s best friend with rich wife of Goldman banker and they have spent 2 years a while back building a fabulous home from scratch with the best view ever. I write so say, ‘hey do they rent it out and is it squillions?’ She replies saying it is squillions in fact but that it wouldn’t be available in August (what was I thinking??) as the lady rich wife is there from 5 July to September, with not a care in the world except for two adorable kids (there is help of course) and eating healthily, working out with personal trainer and waiting for hubby at w/ends wearing red lipstick and nails and ready to f uck you, go out at sunset for a bit of a clubby night (kids stay behind).
My friend says she’s jealous, though her friend is lovely and so you can't be envious in a bad way, she just had the right genes to attract (and keep) the Goldman banker. Which requires some effort, am not denying that she works for the perks. I can’t lament lack of genes (though a couple of inches would have gone down a treat in the leg area), I just was never this bothered about sorting out the financial side of life.

But this little bit of info, coupled with something I read recently about every single mother at school gates at some school in Chelsea sporting a Birkin bag… well today it has the effect of making me think my life sucks big time. And the BF was at dinner in NY last night with a bunch of people, one British woman airily replying to his ‘So what do you do here?’ with a vague ‘Oh, am just spending a month in the Hamptons (notice no further info about what she actually DOES for a living was offered). So I bet he feels his life sucks big time too.
Ah woe is me, since am of the firm opinion that money does buy happiness if you’re not an unlucky depressive to start with and prone to feel you’re never as good as the person who provides your fortune in the first place (parent, spouse etc). I mean, I can’t go buy art (please don’t anyone start saying that you can start by buying art that costs a mere few hundred quid, I believe the stakes in London are too high for entry and have been for years since Saatchi.