This is the time, the time for action, the time to go unseen. Disparate pressures compel us all to begin spending, and even I have had to join in. I’ve been aware of not having made my windfall prize fund work for me since I acquired it – it seemed too late to join in the chase that has pushed every conceivable asset class to the top of its bubble, even second-hand cars, but we all know that when we all sit on our bank accounts and do nothing, the whole world stops, so, public spirited soul that I am, I have bought myself a pre-modern 4×4. He’s more of a 4×2 to be honest, but I like him because he’s only had one owner in his 17 years of life, done hardly any miles, and whereas mother’s husband’s car is modern, controlled by a computer, and made of expensive-to-replace, branded plastic and tin, Martin is reassuringly basic. So much so in fact, that I am sure a mechanic could repair him with just his hands and tools. It makes me feel safe, this addition to the portable property, since he could happily tow Wemmick to any part of the world without drawing breath, meaning that I have built for myself a perfectly balanced and flexible investment portfolio.
What are investments for, if not to provide succour in our old age?
As I write they have still to count the dead in West German flash floods caused by global warming, large parts of the American wilderness are on fire, UK Covid cases have re-entered a period of exponential growth, and this morning, as we declared Bulgaria a safe place to travel, they put us on a red list. We’re all suffering, and my own situation has been compounded by the receipt of a writ regarding my unlawful occupation of Roger’s flat – fortunately, it was addressed to mother’s house, rather than my official address at the Honeypot Caravan and Camping Park, and so has no validity, but I am secretly aware of it; though now, with Martin on hand, I’m ready to escape to the next venue should my enemies track me down to here. When is packing up and running away not a good arrow to have in your quiver? [I refer you to our own Prime Minister’s behaviour six months from now – I don’t know about you, but I think he was sweating between his legs when he gave his levelling up speech this week].
Martin warrants his journeyman name but I have contingencies in mind for us that could yet see us arrive on more exotic shores, and so he has been given a rare second name for one of my family of assets: Daktari. He deserves the chance. My work can be performed in its entirety from behind a computer screen. Why would I not dial-in from Namibia?
A tarpaulin extension to the side of Martin, and my riches will exceed those of Elon Musk. For what is a house, but a static target with your name on it?
Dickie White's Diary 
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