Friends

I saw a bumper-sticker yesterday that read, "No one is a failure if they have friends." I thought to myself, what low standards for success some people have, and no wonder they are driving a Mazda.

I am quite sure that what one likes to read in the newspaper says a lot about one’s relationships. Those of a breeding persuasion read the Births and Marriages, to see what their friends are doing. Those of an older generation read the Deaths, to see what their friends are no longer doing. I like to read the real estate section; it is the best barometer of what one’s acquaintances are lying about.

My favourite is the mortgagee sales pages, which features an increasing number of homes in the blue-chip suburbs. It impresses me how many people manage to put on a jolly good show, while, apparently, their cancerous $1800+ a week mortgage slowly eats away at their lives and bank-balances. Some get out early, before the indignity of slithering permanently off the society pages, and into the “Vendor says sell!” section becomes a certainty.

"We decided to down-size," said one. "The children have left home, so we really don’t need so much space."

"Actually, a one-bedroom apartment is all we need."

"After X had his heart-attack, our priorities changed. Moving out to Onehunga is the best thing we ever did."

Yeah, right.