Day 2 of ‘blogging’ I’m still not entirely sure what the fuck I’m doing, somehow I’ve convinced myself that typing out my inner monologue unfiltered will be of interest to someone other than myself.

In that light today’s agenda involved waking up at 1pm, exiting the bed at 3pm and playing Hearthstone a digital trading card game for the next 3 to 4 hours. Hopefully this is nobodies first exposure to my blog, I’d hate to lose my only reader because they stumbled upon the only post that isn’t solid gold (everything after today’s post is award winning quality).

You know that horrible moment when a coworker or family member corners you and begins to describe in great detail a fictional dream that is of no consequence or interest to you. Do you see where I’m going with this?

So last night I dreamt I was given a wish by a genie, I don’t remember the genie’s face but I’m almost certain it would have been Robin Williams’ genie from Aladdin as I’m sure we can all agree that that is who we think of when someone mentions the word genie. In my dream I chose to use this wish to stipulate that any podcasts, blogs or YouTube videos I created be met with extremely high viewership and anyone who was exposed to them would be instantly hooked.

What’s worse is it isn’t until I write it down that the sheer level of vanity involved in that wish starts to sink in. Basically my desire was to become famous and rich for nothing, but not in a Kim Kardashian way, I wanted people to perceive my work as fantastic, the best they’d seen. My wish was to be seen as a great content creator who would be loved and adored and make a lot of money… For doing absolutely nothing;  and if that doesn’t sum up the ambition of this blog in one paragraph I don’t know what will.

The main focal point of the dream seemed to be the argument I was having with my wife, Rene, about where we should build our fantastical mansion. As a UK born, proudly sarcastic and cynical Brit I always assumed I would stick around here even after I made my inevitable fortune. Dreaming me however had concerns I hadn’t even thought of.

What use is a beautiful outdoor 84ft swimming pool if it’s always raining and overcast? I’m sure there were other issues, I’m sure dreaming me also took into account the economical risks of investing in a country about to enter the uncharted territories of a split from the world’s largest trading block. I’m sure I contemplated whether or not I wanted to anchor myself to a country with rising xenophobic views and a frankly terrifying lean towards hatred based patriotism, but I don’t remember any of those concerns. All I remember is my wife questioning the practicality of a rooftop swimming pool in Leicester and my mind being blown wide open like a pinata at <insert fat celebrity names>’s Mexican themed birthday party.

Even now, fully awake and having had many hours to contemplate this important decision, I can hand on heart say that the swimming pool dilemma is the only real fly in the proverbial ointment. Yet it might be enough to make me move. I’m not even a strong swimmer, watching my attempt at a breaststroke from afar looks more like an elaborate game of charades where someone is trying to mimic the movie Jaws.

I guess I could have an indoor pool, but that just feels common; I might as well go down the local leisure centre and inhale a verruca bandage whilst swimming laps behind an old lady whose rippling skin slowly mesmerises me into a watery grave. No thank you, if I’m going to have a pool (and I fucking well will) then it will be an above ground outdoor pool with a fantastic view and a centre island housing a well stocked bar.

I don’t care if you can’t swim or if you’re petrified of water, are you even rich if you don’t have a rooftop swimming pool? What is the point in being filthy rich if your house doesn’t resemble that of a Bond villain’s secret hideout (admittedly these are often in volcano’s and probably don’t have rooftop pools for logistical reasons).

About a year ago I was living in London, I had just received a decent raise in my job at the time and was looking to move into a flat that less resembled a shoe-box with fitted curtains. Out of morbid curiosity me and my wife searched on Right Move for houses for sale in the City of London, price: high to low.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but the first offering was a better decorated shoe-box with an expensive looking bathtub and a kitchen that you could almost fit two whole people in, this was selling for the cheap cheap price of just 4 million pounds! Now yes, that isn’t mansion money, you don’t get an 84ft rooftop pool with heated tiling and a centre island bar for £4 million but a kitchen that fits maybe 3 people concurrently would definitely be on the nice-to-have list when you’re talking about a property that costs 4 times what the average person will earn in a lifetime. I just can’t comprehend why anyone would chose to purchase such ridiculously expensive housing in London when for half of that money in Wales you could pay someone to massacre an entire village and build you a castle out of their remains.

I mean how much is a helicopter really? I bet you could get a helicopter and a pilot’s licence for less than £2 million (zero research has been put into this claim), that leaves you the remaining £2 million to buy somewhere that DOES have a pool. Living in London may be a status symbol in itself, but if I can fit more people at my rooftop swimming pool’s island bar than you can fit in your kitchen then maybe you’ve gone for the wrong status symbol.

Pool related ramblings aside, I think if I had to choose right now I’d probably stay in the UK and make do with an elaborate gazebo or something. Despite what the country is and has been going through, I’m still somewhat patriotic and all my friends live here. Besides given Trump’s stance on climate change and the spiralling value of the pound it won’t be long until the UK is full of Canadian tourists looking for a cheap summer paradise to tan in.