"Rich Men" published May 6

I don’t think I’m the only woman who has asked herself: “Why the hell didn’t I marry a rich guy?” It’s a question that pops into your head from time to time when your husband “does the figures” on your mortgage and tells you exactly how much interest you paid the bank last year. When you read one of those French property magazines and see you could be the owner of a 20 room chateau in the Dordogne for a mere 1.5 million Euros if you had that kind of cash hanging around. When you meet Gilda Kirkpatrick.
But then you take a look at the guy you married and realize that when you marry for love you are best buddies, like meets like, able to overcome all sorts of obstacles together because, well you just love the guy.
Yeah, but how many more obstacles could you overcome with heaps of cash?
Most of us had a time in our lives when hooking a rich guy could have happened. When we were 20, stretchmarks were still something you only saw in magazines and you had the enthusiasm, energy and experimental nature to allow you to be reasonably interesting to hang out with. As a journalist I should have opted for business journalism rather than the popular press and thrown myself in the path of budding millionaires of the future, ready, willing and able to tag along for the ride.
But then I would have had to write about share markets and indexes instead of rock Gods and where’s the fun in that when you’re 20?
But that was then.
Today spending time with a man who has to wear black polo necks to hide his fabulously wealthy turtle neck and has a permanent smug aura doesn’t seem too much of a sacrifice. Listening to the details of his next property deal while you wonder if you can get that handbag in blue, seems like fun. You’ve already got the pink, white and gold, but you’re having a blue day. Beats paying a mortgage. And I’m told it’s not too late. There are millionaires out there, just waiting to be snapped up.
My plan is as follows.
1) Attend charity events. The Retired Polo Ponies Endowment Fund Ball looks like a good bet. And then there’s the America’s Cup,which certainly behaves like a charity.
2) Hang out with Gilda. Her husband James is apparently worth $80 million and when she was introduced to me recently with all the pomp and ceremony of an audience with Princess Diana I couldn’t help notice she had quite the coterie of ladies in waiting. It’s possible she won’t notice one more tagging along at the many social events she and the Sunday gossip columnists attend.
3) Develop a keen interest in polo and horse racing. Nicky Watson should be able to help with that.
4) Join the National Party. John Keys doesn’t pull in much doing his current job but he’d have rich friends from the old days.
5) Start collecting vintage cars. Rich guys love cars.
6) If all else fails become a flight attendant.
The only problem with all of the above is that I would have to submit to years of plastic surgery to hang out with Gilda and her mates and not stick out like the 44-year old I am. I could no sooner join the National party than cut my arms and legs off inch by agonizing inch, nor do I possess the grim patience to be a flight attendant, be interested in any sport or drag myself out to charity events which bore me rigid within minutes. The only thing I could possibly see myself enjoying is the vintage cars. After all I already own a 1997 Mitsubishi Chariot. So maybe I should just find a vintage rich guy with a big car collection. Chances are a nice steak, a quick lap dance and a kiss on the bald head should be enough to send him off to Dreamland so that I can have some “me” time most nights.
But then there are my two lifelong burdens “personality” and “independence.” Should I ever hook a rich man he would probably want to talk about himself and his money all the time, and that would not do. I like to talk about interesting things like art, books, politics and especially me. I also prefer to earn my own money, pay my own bills and look after myself. Not many rich men would find that very attractive. What function would that leave for them to serve? Offer to buy me that chateau in the Dordogne and I’ll insist that I pay half.
Which I guess is why I never married a rich man.