You know that moment in The Great Gatsby, Brideshead Revisited, the recent Saltburn, or countless other books and movies where a young man from working or middle-class beginnings is taken in by a member of the aristocracy and gets to see their luxurious, glittering world? I've been that character countless times.
I was raised among expats across Asia and the Middle East, which meant my junior school friends were heirs to billion-dollar shipping companies, or had five houses around the world, they were on a plane to some new destination every other week (in first class, of course) but their families didn't visit luxury resorts – they owned them.
I moved to Sydney and the private school system, where girls and boys with unimaginable family fortunes talked of being unable to afford the designer handbags they wanted on their generous allowances and yet drove their families' boats to pick each other up from their waterfront mansions on weekends.
I remember them getting cars for birthday presents, and had a friend whose parents bought her whatever she wanted – and she wanted everything.
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After uni, I moved to London and fell in with an aristo-British crowd, who owned penthouses in Pimlico and who took me and my friends to private clubs all up and down the Kings Road. They could trace their lineages back to the Middle Ages and knew royals and no expense was spared in their lives.