If I ever have the great good luck to win some kind of lottery, I’d be faced with a serious choice.
Option 1:
- become a jet-setter and travel the globe, visiting unfamiliar places like Helsinki, Prague etc.:
- go shooting in Britishland with Mr. Free Market,
- sip long glasses of G&T on the balcony of my hotel room in Monte Carlo or in a beach house in the Seychelles:
…and generally spend the rest of my life in strange, exciting places.
Option 2:
Buy a large farm somewhere and live (and end) the rest of my life like Uncle Hub and Uncle Garth, snarling at the world and shooting at strangers from my porch:
And don’t tell me to embrace the healing power of “and”, because the two lifestyles are completely opposite and contrary, and my faltering old brain probably couldn’t handle the sudden shift back and forth.
People who know me well, like my Longtime Loyal Readers, will appreciate the attraction of both options to me.
Option 2 because…people.
You could jet set for a year or two, then bunker up. My natural preference would be for option 2, given my misanthropic tendencies