It was my turn as Sage this past Sunday and, in view of the latest goat-selling debacle, I was keen to find words to reflect my thoughts on the whole process.
The simplicity of these words really appealed to me, going a long way to put it all in perspective, but I confess I had no idea who Warren Buffett is. After consulting another Sage (this time in the form of Mr Google), I discovered:
a) I am a little out of the loop when it comes to financial high flyers, and
b) if he thinks honesty is a tad on the steep side, it must be pretty dang pricey
which puts Mr Buffett and I squarely on the same page…with regards to the propriety of honesty anyway.
It seems only right that words of such integrity are accompanied by a little confession; a clearing of conscience, if you will. Especially as this secret of mine, teeny though it is, has been impacting painfully on me recently. So here goes…
Way back in the dark ages when I was what is now referred to as a “tween” I was a fan of the Bay City Rollers. Yes, it’s true. While the majority of my peers – and the rest of the world, really – were grooving to the Swedish pop powerhouse, I was scowling about their perfect, symmetrical image and their perfect, symmetrical songs while stomping around in 3/4 length tartan trim trew with matching scarf decrying the musical brilliance of …eek, I’m blushing as I type.
Now, before you all hit the “unfollow” button, in my defence, this adulation of a musical group that (I knew even back then) was far inferior to the Agnetha/Bjorn/Benny/Anni-Frid combo had more to do with my bloody-mindedness when it comes to following the crowd than complete musical ignorance. I felt/feel the same about Bruce Springsteen, Madonna and Cold Play; My perversity is a cross I have to bear…and now you all know.
Then recently whilst undertaking school research on the internet, Farm Girl happened upon Them with their perfect harmonies and clever composition and my days suddenly have a soundtrack that still, a great many years later, fans a glimmering ember of rebellious disdain. Can You Hear the Drums Fernando, Dancing Queen, Chiquitita, and Farm Girl’s favourite (“although it’s a bit skanky”), Gimme, Gimme, Gimme. Oh, how the rest of the Homestead snigger.
But I’m a grown-up now; I can rise above it all. Sort of. I even used Them to accompany the Cinnamon Scrolls and Spinach Feta Rolls I’d *ahem* whipped up (a’la Kiwi cooking legend, Alison Holst, this time) for our Sunday treat.
Because, well…while money, money, money may be funny in a rich man’s world, it seems honesty is regarded with utter solemnity.