Our local farmer's market lies across the park from our apartment and is a delicious part of our Saturday.
Our regular routine has been happily disrupted for the summer, with Calvin in summer camp. Practically, this means a pointe work worthy choreography of alternating drop offs and pick ups, and a blissful opportunity to commuting a toute seule very early in the morning.
In the course of a mere week I’ve actually polished off a pair of books and enjoyed eavesdropping on my fellow city dwellers. The gem of the week was this monologue delivered by a dog walker to three people.
The location: a street corner in the so-called ‘Silk Stocking District’ of New York’s Upper East Side.
The topic: “Rich people don’t got anything!”
“They got dogs, but they don’t enjoy them: they pay me to walk them and play with them.
They got houses, but they don’t live in them: they pay someone to clean them and they’re always going out or somewhere else.
They got weekend houses, but they don’t stay in them: they hire you to open them and close them and be there inbetween.
They got cars, but they don’t drive them: they pay their chauffeur to do that.
They got children, but they don’t raise them: they pay their nanny or some expensive school to do that.
…So tell me, what is it exactly that they’ve got?
I’m telling you, rich people… they don’t got anything!”