My Patience Is "Shorten"-ing

I no longer have any credit on the Harvey Norman voucher my family received from the insurance company to replace lost items when our house flooded last year.  We replaced our furniture, and also bought a fantastic outdoor bench with the funds remaining.  Almost regretting that outdoor bench because perhaps the little left over could have gone to a Christmas gift for Bill Shorten and the rest of the Labor Party.  What I have in mind is a whipper-snipper.  They can use it as they go on their Tall Poppy Lopping Expedition, which is what comes to mind with the sniping about the wealth Prime Minister Turnbull has accumulated over his life, some of which is invested in - shhhhh! - the Cayman Islands.  Look, I'm more aligned with Labor than Liberal any day, but this reverse snobbery over Turnbull's wealth just reeks of petulance and pettiness.  It does nobody any credit whatsoever.  I recall your former leader Kevin Rudd's wife was wealthy, too.  What does wealth matter?  Fuck knows I wish I had more of it. 

Trying to paint Turnbull as an elitist out of touch with every day hard working Australians on the basis he is rich is about as pointless as bashing on piano keys with your elbows.  If he has accumulated his wealth by hard work, and on his own admission a bit of good luck, then that would at least show he has some intelligence.  If the wealth has been accumulated by fair means, and the appropriate tax paid on it, then - and I will just type this slowly - What. Does. It. Bloody. Matter. How. He. Invests. His. Own. Bloody. Money (again provided investments are all legal etc etc etc)?

Criticise the man's policies by all means - God alone knows I do - but bitching because someone's rich?  Grow up!

Well, I'm off to the printers to collect a copy of my manuscript - time for its next edit.  And then, oh then, I'm off to pick up Master 11, home from school camp.  We've missed our little bundle of fun.  Then tonight I'm off to see a movie with a friend.  The film starts at 9.00pm.  This feels strange for me, it seems like I'm going to have a late night.  I've never been a night owl at all, really, but in my twenties I would often stumble  home at three in the morning (although I preferred to be home by midnight!), but now that I'm staring down the barrel at fifty, going out to pick up my friend at 8.30pm feels positively decadent.