Rich people: some life lessons

Or how you need to be mindful of who you benchmark yourself against

I grew up in a single parent family. My mother married again but for a long time it was mum as the main breadwinner. She did a full-time senior job and bought up three children. We didn’t get to do all the activities other kids did. We wore second hand clothes. I got free school dinners and got teased because it was very obvious who the free school dinner kids were (stupidly you had to queue in a different line).

My mum bought herself her first flat when she was in her thirties. It was 19K and this was in the early eighties when you could still buy property and it wasn’t just for wealthy people. Baby boomers were privileged in that way.

She told me that she used to get off the bus three steps early so she didn’t get charged an extra 50 pence. And yes I still class myself as privileged for sure, but nonetheless I have spent a lot of my life being friends with people who have more wealth. This has meant visiting them in their bigger houses. Being picked up in their bigger car. Listening to them talk about their kids at private school or with private tutors.

When I joined the influencer world, back in the day (when it was really at its height in terms of mum influencers) and started going to events I found it hard to fathom how these women actually survived, more than survived but fed their entire families through writing books and doing podcasts. When I saw their content I noticed their enormous kitchens. And some of them obviously did very well with lots of sponsored content and deals. However some of them were already wealthy. They’d married wealthy.

‘If you move here you must get your husband to buy you an art gallery,’ one woman said to me at one of these events, ‘You’ll get bored in the countryside otherwise.’

‘Oh no I’ll have to work because I’m the breadwinner,’ I replied.

She moved away from me as if I was potentially carrying something contagious.

‘Where do you summer?’

‘What’s your family name?’

‘Which university did you go to?’

‘What’s your postcode?’

All these questions I’ve been asked at various socials. A friend’s wedding where I looked around and realised that half the invitees were Tory MPs. The same friend then invited me to her house and we drove up and it looked like Downton Abbey. Her uncle was a baron. They announced that they wouldn't get out the expensive stuff today because ‘the guests won't know the difference.’

The uncle had very bad teeth and I wondered whether I would ever marry such a man in exchange for wealth. Then realised I would never be considered.

A Christening where I explained that my family didn't ‘summer’ anywhere and could usually be found in South London. Another wedding where the men all exposed their bums on the dance floor and called one another ‘slags.’

At the same wedding, a man went up to my face, pulled my mouth open and said: ‘This one is a good breeder!’

The all inclusive holidays that cost 20K. The Land Rovers. The names - Tarquin, Ziggy, whatever sounds bohemian and plays down the wealth- I don’t want to be negative but posh people often go for something wacky. I did a second birthday party in the garden one year and a wealthy friend came up to me.

‘This place would be great if you could knock down the wall between both houses.’

‘Yes but that would mean buying the house next door.’

‘Why don’t you ask your neighbour? I’m sure they’d be up for it.’

Another friend: ‘This place would be fab as a little bolt hole. A cute little bolt hole for the weekend.’

‘This is where I live though,’ I said.

‘No I know but I’d use it as a bolt hole. It’s so cute. Like a student house!’

I have tried not to be triggered and let me be clear. Not all of these friends have rich husbands. But many of them do. I also have friends who have rich husbands and you’d never know. They are positively embarrassed about it. They don’t drop into the conversation that they’ve spent 700 quid a month on renting a car. Or that they own 3 homes. Or that they pay a tutor 500 quid a month to teach their kid how to hold a pen.

I recently was talking to a friend - not extremely wealthy- and we started talking about rich husbands and the role they play in facilitating creativity, and I realised that from a young age I’d always measured myself against people who were wealthy.

I saw a parallel universe where I lived in a large, spacious home. All the surfaces would be white and the kitchen top would be imported from Italy. I’d drive an impressive car and have a Bengal cat. I’d have an expensive body- one of those bodies that spends every hour in the gym or doing Pilates on reformer machines. I’d out source every single thing, and write books all day whilst my husband travelled the world doing important things. I would probably be expected to maintain a certain standard so would need to get regular tweakments but I could deal with that side.

‘Imagine how unhappy you’d be,’ my friend added, ‘Imagine how sad your life would be.’

I agreed wholeheartedly. I was happy in my shed-house, run ragged with doing everything and bringing home the bacon. I was happy. Who needed all the stuff? Who needed all that time? A good breeder.

Not me.