STEPS

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN Life is what it is

If these steps were necessary, did everything need to happen for me to arrive here? Would a single deviation have changed the entire course? Sometimes I look at a big arse in a tracksuit, a hairy beer belly hanging over low-lying jeans, an ugly as heck female, a formless shape in a wheelchair - maybe one limb moving spasmodically. Any of these could have been me, any of them. The starving child in Africa; The young sex slave in Asia; The black gang member imprisoned for life in America; The woman mourning a dead child in the Middle East; Any of those images on the screen. Could have been me.

Sure puts my assumed wretchedness into perspective. Countless others trapped in forever prisons, no possibility of absconding, circumventing. What? I had some abuse as a child, some abuse when an adolescent. What? I'm alive, in relative good health. Sister to success, my basic needs covered and these two beautiful sons. How bloody lucky am I? Likelihoods for greater, immutable misfortunes everywhere, mine insignificant compared with these imagined others. The horrid tragedies - even the worst ones - I walked through them, I overtook them!

There's the other side too, those I mingle with, flaunting their wealth and privilege. Lifestyles only ever gawked at by strangers on the periphery, looking up, looking in, emulating as best they can, and ever seeking access. Do I? Do I want to be these glamorous, stylised ideals? Was it ever, at any time the money? Or was it always only about the freedom from and the freedom to? On the surface appearing similar, because of the perception an amount of wealth secures freedom, this measurably quantified by the degree - more of the former bestowing more of the latter.

Does it? I study these rich faces, groomed to perfection. Language controlled. Emotion meted out on demand. Behaviour modified to reflect the expected excellence. Are any of them real? Are their lives any more sovereign than mine? Have they found amid the privilegethe liberties suspended outside my grasp?

Sometimes I ask those faces. "Why don't you stop? You've amassed enough money, enough bloody things. Why don't you do something meaningful?"

Travel; explore the myriad wonders, those outside the expensive resorts and private, exclusive hide-outs. Or else help people - not through fancy charitable foundations, set up as tax havens and opportunities for photos affirming your generosity. Really help.

Apparently when you get there though, there is no un-getting there, no opting out. There are rules still in place despite the lofty altitude. Hearing some of them bemoan the lack of privacy, the constant scrutiny, the struggle to maintain this perfect facade. First World Problems, a curious term coined to descrobe their shallow, nonsensical bitching.

"We just returned from an exclusive resort in Santorini." Words followed by the obligatory scroll through IPhone images, sparkling water, marble bathrooms and plush furnishings; the view from the terrace breathtaking.

"Must have been fun?"

"The resort sure; we had a private beach. The town was filled with riff-raff though. Too many backpackers and drunks... So we mainly stayed on site."

Sure, sometimes I do crave their luxury of being. Staying in posh hotels, driving expensive vehicles, expending ridiculous amounts on imagined luxuries turned necessities: The Chanel bag, the Ermenegildo Zegna suit,  The power too: Not having to check the bank balance before offering up my card for a purchase. Others opening doors, facilitating, smoothing my passage through places and situations, others ensuring my ease. Yeah I crave some relief from the monotony and meagreness of poverty.

I say if I was ever one - one of them - I'd be different. I'd do some good. Enjoy life. I wouldn't give a fuck about appearances and standards and expectations. I'd live free from scrutiny, untouched by any and all demands for conformity. Right. I'd be the eccentric one, the anomaly.