I’ve been playing hooky. It’s bad because the work I have to do is work for myself. No one’s going to give me anything for doing nothing. I’m usually very good because I’m doing exactly what I want to do and I’m really enthusiastic about it. It is enthusiasm which led me to what turned out to be the path of procrastination. I was doing online research for my project, which includes looking at gorgeous stuff online on a website that is about 6-star stuff. Let me just say that I need to understand the arena. This site is a luxury seekers trap. The places in the world that take the breath away on a website must be like God’s hand when you’re actually there. From gorgeous locations to luxury yacht I have wondered. And I have wanted. I want. I am wanting.
However, it’s the jewellery that really got me engrossed. It’s kind of odd because I don’t wear jewellery. I sold the diamonds I had once bought for myself when the crash came. I got crushed in the crash and the diamonds had to go. But the diamonds looked like Zircon and I was equally happy with the Zircon that replaced the diamonds. They sparkled. That’s all you want really, isn’t it. Only a gemmologist knows that they aren’t real. Most people don’t know diamond from glass. I don’t usually; except glass is set in crap and diamonds are in gorgeous settings. If you put glass in a gorgeous setting I’d be fooled. I’d have to verify carats with an expert.
I went to a wedding once. I had this ring that was cut like an emerald cut diamond, but it wasn’t even glass. It was resin. Nonetheless, I loved it. It was a fun piece of costume tittle tattle, I thought. I was speaking to a lovely lady. As she gesticulated I caught sight of her finger. She was wearing the real thing. She was wearing the ring that mine emulated. From palm to knuckle the stone reached, as did mine, but mine was resin and hers was diamond. I discreetly, I hope, manoeuvred my ring off my finger and popped it into my purse. My ring was fine for fashion week. It didn’t work here.
There’s a lovely old-fashioned expression among the upper classes in England that used to be employed when describing those of new money. ‘Vulgar’. The assumption back in the day was that new money was flashy and displayed its wealth in ways that the uppers didn’t; in ways that were unseemly, and so they were called ‘vulgar’. Jewellery that was too big and showy was also called ‘vulgar. It’s a lovely word, especially when you let the ‘u’ and ‘l’ linger on the throat and tongue -‘Vuuuulllgar’. Oh, and one must adopt a subtle, but superior sneer when one says it. It’s such drama. Don’t ya’ love it?
So, there I was checking out the divine jewels on line and drooling in a way that defies logic because yachts and vulgar jewels have no place in my life. But one is allowed to dream dreams of vuuuulllgarity and disgusting displays of obscene consumerism. It’s vacuous, but so prettily vacuous; so enticingly vacuous. No, it’s not what I want for myself. Yes, if I had that kind of wealth I would be socially responsible and aristocratically understated and etcetera. Yes, Yes! I was well educated in being posh. I know.
But, I find myself attracted to that obscenely large pink diamond surrounded by a configuration of an indecent number of white diamonds each containing a copious indulgence of carats. I’d wear it and I’d accept the censure of the uppers as though it were accolades. I don’t even wear pink; but I’d wear that.
There was a diamond neck piece. You had to see the size of the diamond. It was like the Cullinan. Who wears that stuff, and where do they wear it? In my society you could wear it and they’d assume it was a good piece of Swarovski and I would not disabuse them. I’ve not lost all good taste. I am part Brit, after all.
It’s new to me this hankering after jewels. I only bought the diamonds because I fancied the idea of a tennis bracelet and I’d made some good money at the time and I thought, let me splurge on something ridiculous. But I didn’t dare get too ridiculous. I splurged modestly on a diamond pinkie ring of good quality and very tasteful proportion and a tennis bracelet. I didn’t take the big one, because I thought it looked too…… well..….vulgar. Perhaps I was thinking indecently showy or not befittingly deferent to the aesthetically refined Brit in me. I took the one with the demure diamonds. I took the tasteful one. Now, though, I don’t know if I wouldn’t be persuaded to the one that insurers won’t insure if you want to wear it all over town; the one that I can keep as an investment for my old age, or sell and use the money to freeze my body for eventual resurrecting in the year 7095 on Mars. I could live the distant future financed by a vulgar pink diamond.
I’m not obscenely wealthy and I have my bills, so the future on Mars isn’t something that I have to worry about just yet. Although, I’m young enough. My obscene wealth could still come. However, having said that, if someone whose wealth exceeds the national debt reads this and thinks of making me a gift of the vuuuulllgar pink diamond ring. I accept it. With gratitude and alacrity, I accept. I won’t sell it in the next crash, I promise. I’ll wear it with pride and exceeding joy though de fam’ly be starvin’ an’ de chil’ren shoeless an’ de shack held together wit’ pappier masher. I will not sell that ring.
I’m in Laahve!