This is in response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Feeling Fancy.”
I will now describe my ideal day full of the luxuries I definitely can’t afford. I’m feeling fancy.
To start with, I don’t want to waste any time. I have to start this day when it really begins, which is at midnight. At 0.01 am sharp, I will be banging at the gates of my luxury mansion, the one with a pool that by its size could accommodate a blue whale, its entire family and a few of its closest cousins. The pool will be somewhere warm, which excludes Finland.
So maybe a helicopter will take me there first. Some first-rate acting agency has hired Harrison Ford to do the flying. They’ve also hired servants who resemble my most-detested politicians to serve me champagne and hand-made Belgian chocolates. I decline them politely. Rich people can afford to decline hand-made chocolates. I’ll order in some special chocolates later, hand-made to resemble the entire cast of Emmerdale. As we hover over oceans, Harrison entertains me with anecdotes about his Indiana Jones days and the one time he fell into the snake pit for real.
At the mansion, the party is about to start. The servants dress me in an 18th century dress made with finest Indian silk, embroidered with tiny pearls. A team of masseurs begins to work their magic, each picking a limb to work on. They dedicate a whole team of specialists to my back. I relax as the servants do my hair up and slather on some make-up that miraculously makes me look like I was 25 again. No, wait. They’re putting on some more make-up. It makes me look like Kate Moss was 16 again.
A stomping sound awakens me from my reverie. Harrison has brought a trove of elephants with fancy saddles on their backs. The elephants bear me and my servants away as a violin quartet…
Ehem. Reality check. The thumping sound is not elephants. It’s children jumping down the stairs. The violin quartet is the screams resulting from one child jumping on top of another child. It is the symphony of the dislocated shoulder.
Let’s face it. I am a parent of small children. A luxurious day for such a parent consists of the following:
- Sleeping through the night and getting up late (8 am qualifies as late when you have children)
- Eating breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks without once getting up to wipe spilled milk or get something from the fridge or prevent Third World War
- Not having to play with Lego, step on Lego or pick up Lego from the floor, not even once, in fact not being in any contact with Lego at all.
- Getting a chance for some me-time, like a quiet trip to the bathroom.
- Getting the kids to bed by 7.30 pm, and afterwards watching a movie with significant other. With crisps and red wine.
That is my idea of a good time.
Luxury is a relative concept.