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MAN ABOUT LONDON |
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WHILE REMEMBERING YOUR LIFE SAVINGS
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Investing in Iceland once
seemed so...clever, right?
of TheColumnists.com
More happy gas, please.
Last week the credit crunch got personal. Last week I had my
savings. In Icesave, the Icelandic bank that’s just gone
bust. Those Icelanders have some nerve. They get us Brits to
hand over our hard-earned savings, and then they get some chap
in glasses called “the prime minister” to hold a press
conference and tell us it’ll all be OK. He says Iceland’s
got loads of fish and that means they can pay back the four billion
quid they owe us. Only it turns out that he meant four billion
squid--worth a total of one pound and 52 pence.
But up here on my way to Washington, D.C., 35,000 feet over the
Atlantic on Virgin Upperclass--thanks to a rich client who paid
before the economy nose-dived--I’m in a little bubble of
comfort. It’s like happy gas, the stuff dentists gave kids
in the ‘70s. Inhale as the drill approaches and you’re
too busy laughing to care.
I wish this plane didn’t have to land, though. I’m
cosily closeted in my snug upperclass cubicle with sides that
are just high enough that I can’t see the next person. The
air hostess has just filled my glass. A couple of swigs will
help calm my nerves. Excuse me...
Ah, that’s better.
When I left Heathrow, back in the real world, Britain’s
finance minister, a man called Darling, was on the TV. He says
the Icelanders have pulled a dirty trick. He says they only have
one pound and fifty-two pence between them, and might therefore
struggle to pay the £4 billion they owe us--the £4
billion we gave them in good faith.
He says he’ll take them to court to
make them pay. But pay with what? Fish fingers? I’ve a mortgage
and my savings have morphed into a small piece of Icelandic trout.
Mustn’t dwell on it. Up here in upperclass you wouldn’t
know the world was in trouble. Crisis? What crisis? I’m
in a cotton-wool, happy-gas universe.
My little cubicle is a cosy place, with
full-length leg room, personal entertainment system and lots
of little freebies that a man needs when he’s lost his savings--like
tubes of moisturiser and some socks. I can forget that the world
is in turmoil. All I see is a big blue ocean, perfectly calm.
Every few minutes my upperclass steward asks me if I’m ok.
Do I want a top up? Please, I say.
Feeling a little better now. But it would be great if this plane
never had to arrive. I’m safe up here and could get used
to a life of pampering, warmth, comfort, great food and wine
on tap. The gentle turbulence is soothing, too, in a womb-like
kind of way.
Champagne? asks the stewardess. Oh, why not. Excuse me...
Maybe this is how President Bush felt on Airforce One on 9/11.
High above Arizona or Colorado, or wherever, maybe he too wished
the plane never had to land. When it lands my phone vibrates
and my blackberry buzzes. The crisis is in my face. But up here
I’m out of touch, uncontactable.
It’s a surreal, sanitised happy-gas
world of fine wines, pretty hostesses, entertainment systems,
Stilton cheeses and sweet chutney. I like it and I don’t
want it to end. The stewardess is approaching with a bottle of
port, a smile on her face and a twinkly eye.
Yes, please. Yes, right up to the top, please. Excuse me...
I guess it’s not so bad. It’s only money. Bits of paper.
Those Icelandic folk can’t bother me really. What’s
Iceland ever done? Hosted a summit between Gorbachev and Reagan
and lost 4 billion in British money. There are only a few thousand
of them--and nobody’s ever met one--yet they’ve packed
one hell of a punch.
Up here it makes no difference. There’s "Frasier"
on the telly and smooth classics piped through my headphones.
Cake is on offer, a masseur is on board and I must see how far
I can press the lumbar support. Oh, I say! That’s lovely.
Hits the spot. I’m ready to have a nap before afternoon
tea is served. But more wine first. Excuse me...
Yes, I know, the bankers in that tiny Atlantic island racked
up eight times more debt than the worth of the country’s
entire assets. And yes, I know they used slick marketing and
unsustainable interest rates to draw us into their net. But I’m
not one to seek revenge.
Now, let me see, where are we exactly? The skymap on my entertainment
system will give me our precise location. Well, what do you know?--we’re
over Iceland, and Reykjavik is right underneath us.
Is the rest room vacant? Oh good. Excuse me ...
©2008 by Robert Taylor. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted Oct. 20, 2008.
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