jus de mécontentement

This morning over my morning coffee I accidentally got speaking to the couple next to me at the local cafe.

They were your archetypal Bondi couple. Late thirties. She blondish. Exercise gear on. Hers including black tights of course. She was trim. He was not. Some obscure sort of bull terrier called Max. iPhones. Exercise stroller containing the real boss of the household. BMW X5 parked outside. And that weird pseudo-English drawing out of the latter diphthongs that they must practice for hours in front of YouTube, because it ain’t natural.

By trade he was formerly one of those finance sector types with no discernable trade. She was in PR. Both out of GPS schools I would guess.

A few years ago, disgusted with the then current offerings of bottled juices, they had started their own concoction with a target market of ‘their mates’. After a little success they sold out to an FMCG for a ‘large sum’.

Now they spend their time moving between Bondi and Bali, where they have a ‘villa’.

She spends her time hunting for consumer goods but he has found a more effective means of wasting money; investing in startups.

This seems to be one source of marital discontent since all these startup investments have ended up in pulp and not juice.

He can’t understand why it’s that hard for his investees to make it work. He even steps in to help them and that doesn’t seem to make any difference.

They are thinking of going back into juice to make a few more millions just in case they run out of money.

I left them to their plotting of the rest of their daily activities without a single word of friendly advice.

My prediction; in about three years they will join the ranks of business consultants in Sydney.