I’m poor now—but I grew up rich, around old money people. And let me tell you, they are… peculiar.
They’ll have trust funds, but no central heating.
“Why do you think God invented wool? Put on a jumper.”
They’ll go to Swiss boarding school and return with a strange international accent and British teeth—even if they’re American. Orthodontics? Very middle class. Personally, I inherited disproportionately large teeth and no wisdom teeth at all.
They own five homes, yet spend every summer in the same crumbling cottage in Maine. No air conditioning. Three bathtubs, no showers. And a raccoon with squatting rights. They call it tradition.
They’ll spend a fortune on staff because they “inherited” the maid and she counts on them—but they won’t pay for parking. “We’re not made of money.”
The children go to private school, play tennis, sail, and ride horses… but by year’s end their shoes are held together with duct tape. Socks, if worn, are cashmere. Their phones? An iPhone 6. “It still rings, doesn’t it?”
They name their children Montgomery, Peregrine, and Araminta—but the dog’s name is Susan. Because she looked like Grandma Ma’s maid.
They live in sprawling mansions where the Wi-Fi doesn’t work—thick walls, you know. But if you go to the stables, it’s excellent.
They’ll sneer at influencers, yet work full-time on the Garden Club newsletter, which has ten thousand readers. They’re just not monetizing it. That would be tacky.
They don’t care about money—until you serve Prosecco. Then they care very much.
They believe business class is for hedge fund managers; divorcees fly private or economy.
They refuse Botox, yet will spend a month at a mysterious spa in Baden-Baden drinking radioactive water.
And if you really want to insult them? Call them rich.