Why I love rich people

Walking around in Kensington for the past few days I have seen a lot of uber rich people. The kind that do their weekly food shop in Harrods and spend £6.50 on a bag on Granny Smith apples, go home and park their Porsche Carrera beside their Range Rover in the driveway of their million pound townhouse and say plaaah-stic instead of plastic. Ugh. I would readily admit I can't stand them, partly because the ones that I've encountered have been twats and partly because I'm ridiculously jealous. But that was the old me.

Whilst strolling through the tree lined streets of the Gloucester Road area with nothing to do, as I had mixed up the time of the Ashley Isham show and missed it (Alex pointed out that it's my memory loss from growing old, it's a sore subject) we happened across an Oxfam and ventured in, hearing rumours that rich people threw out really good things.

After about ten minutes Alex picked up a pair of Golden Goose black biker boots adorned with a few studs. They weren't her size so she handed them over, and I pushed my foot in, pondered for a while as to whether I looked like a mini Hells Angel, and then bought them for a paltry £30.



I later googleed them and it turns out that they are limited edition handmade Italian leather boots that cost - wait for it - $1,145. Seriously. I know, ohmygod. Thank you Alex's feet for being to big. Who impulse buys $1,145 boots and then throws them out?! Answer: Rich people. And that's why I love them.

We then ventured to Harrods and bought £950 Belluga caviar and washed it down with several bottles of Bollinger. Naturally.